Vice and Quackery in Toronto the Good - T
by RuthieBelle
Summary: As the title says, vice and quackery in Toronto. Slightly racier "M" version also.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Vice and Quackery in Toronto the Good

Author: RuthieBelle

Rating: T (Slightly racier M version exists)

Summary: As the title says, vice and quackery in Toronto.

Warning: General season 10 spoilers.

Notes: This is what happens when you start thinking about muckrakers and patent medicines.

 **Chapter One**

"How dare y….." he shouted before his body hit the wall with a solid thud, echoed a fraction of a second later by his head snapping against the vertical surface and jarring his teeth violently. A gasp, then a groan escaped his lips.

"Shut up, you hypocritical degenerate. It seems you just never learn, do you?" came the answer, close and hot in his ear.

"You can't threaten me anymore," he whined, scrabbling ineffectively at the fists which hiked his jacket up around his thick neck and round, protruding cheeks.

"No. Not any _more_ _._ You have only two choices." A loud voice argued back. "Pay the price with me, or….pay the price with _her_ _!"_

Both men reacted to a sharp banging sound by jumping apart.

"Oy! I said, quiet down! I run a respectable establishment here. If you can't hold your peace or your liquor move along! Now!"

 _Madame_ Le Chabanais's elegant white plume bent awkwardly when she brought her head back inside the window. She petted the feather back in place and scowled as she grasped twin brass handles on the window sash and pulled down to settle the window closed and block any more noise from the alley. All she saw were two shadows thrown by the streetlight, grateful they appeared to be moving away into the night, along with their oddly familiar voices. She could not afford any unwarranted attention being brought to her door, especially tonight, considering whom she was entertaining a mere twenty feet away.

She turned to inspect the well-appointed hallway, decorated with velvet drapes at the windows and a thick patterned runner laid down on polished oak floors. She'd spared no expense to bring an elevated sense of style and adventure for the discerning clientele, coupled with absolute discretion, to her new establishment. She even sought out the French furniture maker, _Soubrier_ , which crafted her _siege d'amour_ (at a heart-stopping cost) in addition to other helpful items, to enhance the pleasure of her customers. The _siege_ was particularly sought after by men like King Edward who were so portly they would crush a woman in the course of trying to have normal relations. Men who needed physical support in the act of love were gladly willing to make use of it-at a hefty price. She could not, and _would not_ under any circumstances allow anyone or anything to derail her enterprise or disappoint her investors.

Of course, ' _Le Chabanais'_ was not the paternal appellation her father had given her-after all she never did know the bastard's surname. So the _Madame_ , (née Goby, from Limehouse in the east end of London), grimaced automatically at the irony: _And I am supposed to be the bastard?!_ she thought. _But if the grand French name was good enough for the comfort of Good King Edward whist he sojourned in Paris, it was good enough for Toronto!_

' _Mademoiselle_ Chastity' poked her head out of one of the gleaming doors with a questioning look on her artistically - enhanced face. Each of her girls was named for a virtue, no matter what vice the customer requested from her. The _Madame_ slowed her breath and sent her voice into her trademark throaty contralto purr, in stark contrast to the fish-wife scream of a minute ago. " _Mademoiselle,_ please, there is nothing to fret over. Merely some gentlemen who over-imbibed. Tell your _Monsieur_ I will send champagne to make up for the interruption." She motioned to her time-piece then flicked her fingers to indicate the girl needed to get back to business _tout de suite_ , and made her way back to her _salon_. Passing through the hallway, _Madame_ straightened an embroidered sampler on the wall, grinning at the flowery Latin made in such delicate silk stitches.

" _Tempus fugit_ indeed," she murmured to the swishing of her skirts.

# # #

It wasn't even the first time that day that Julia's expertise had been sought on this particular matter. It seems that after a downward lull, the nostrums cooked up by con men had once again reasserted themselves in the poorest neighborhoods of the city. As she counseled another patient on the dangers of yet another 'patent medicine', Julia wasn't so convinced that either Opium or Heroin were quite the wonder drugs many touted them to be. Then there was the unfortunate habit the makers of these products had of putting something in to deliberately make the person who took it _sick_ , to convince the naïve and uninformed person that the medication was working and strong enough to do some good.

 _At the very least, these potions should only be obtainable through a trained physician_ , she thought with considerable annoyance. As she walked away, she made a note to add instruction on the dangers of such products to a future lesson and gritted her teeth, determined to get through the afternoon.

Mrs. Perkins was yet another unfortunate who was trying to treat her "hysteria" with a tonic, and who was worried about the growing dependence she had on it. Julia shook her head in disbelief. _I wager she'd cure her hysteria if she just pleasured herself, or allowed herself to enjoy her husband,_ she crudely smirked in her head before quickly reminding herself that she was being unfair. It was a damned shame that society taught women that the sexual act, even within marriage, was still dirty and something to be avoided. Julia had long believed that many of the supposed cases of "female hysteria" could be frustration at a lack of sexual outlet or opportunities for fulfillment outside the home. An upper-class woman could simply visit a certain doctor who would manually provide relief from her vexations, or take up horseback riding, whereas a poor woman couldn't afford the discreet service, and would instead partake in various tonics in effort to relieve their symptoms.

With licorice, chamomile, pleurisy root, Jamaica dogwood, black cohosh, _life plant_ (whatever that was), fenugreek seed, and dandelion root, Julia suspected that it probably didn't taste half bad and might even be something of a treat. While it was true Lydia E. Pinkham's "Vegetable Compound" did indeed treat the symptoms of many "female problems", it did so through its copious use of alcohol rather than any true medicinal properties it may have-hence Mrs. Perkins' growing dependence upon the product; the woman was becoming a regular drinker of a medicinal liqueur. At 19% alcohol, it was merely masking her issues as opposed to curing them and while this was unfortunate, it wasn't the saddest story she had heard in relation to these nostrums. Those would be the infants she encountered who were already addicted to opium, as their parents were treating colic with it. Julia wasn't sure the number of infant deaths wasn't actually heroin or opium overdoses unreported. Sometimes, medical issues weren't the root cause of many of the problems, and were merely symptomatic of the greater societal issues that went largely ignored. Of course Julia and the other professors did their best to counsel the patients against the use of such nostrums or "patented medications", but when such formulas were one of the few things that brought relief to an otherwise hard life, she wasn't sure how much their advice would be heeded.

St. Andrew's Church was a large parish kind enough to allow the Women's Medical College space to operate a community clinic two Wednesdays a month, and as typical for such a day, Julia was running to and fro between the various rooms, ensuring that all was going accordingly, or at least as close to it as practical, entreaties to stop medicating newborns with opiate tinctures aside. After lining up inside, the patients would enter the vestry, where a professor would assist first and second year students with the categorization of triage, to the Small Hall, where classed accordingly, third year students would carefully document their symptoms and other pertinent details. There they would wait to be called into the Parish Hall, where the fourth year students treated patients under the watchful eye of their professors. Though the University of Toronto medical school also operated such clinics, the plethora of the city's poor ensured that there was still a shortage of affordable medical care.

In Julia's opinion, this clinic attracted those even more desperate than the university clinic, as these patients were so insolvent _**and**_ ill, they were beyond caring about the gender of their health practitioner.

While it hadn't been Julia's idea to start operating such a clinic, she'd jumped at the opportunity to assist the medical college in establishing one as a teaching tool and community outreach, using her experience at various free clinics over the years to help fine-tune this one into a well-run machine, using the abundance of womanpower to ensure that things ran as smoothly as possible. Or at least as smoothly as was possible in an environment where it was becoming readily apparent that many of the patients had already attempted to take matters into their own hands and use one of the nostrums currently for sale in many shops in Toronto. Perhaps it would require someone more gifted with words to fully convince them of the danger of such potions, tinctures, and salves.

Speaking of alcohol, she was quite looking forward to the wine that would accompany her dinner. _And I'm not going to beat around the bush…it won't cure my 'woman troubles' whatever those may be, but it will help me relax,_ she thought with derision. _As for those pesky female issues, perhaps William would be feeling better this evening_ and she would seduce him, lest she encounter the affliction of hysteria, she thought with a pleased countenance.

Whatever smile upon her face was short lived as she spied a woman she'd seen before, who had previously asked about contraception. This time she was here again with all five of her children, and visibly pregnant with another. _Pity that William won't entertain the thought of compensating such a woman for her child,_ she thought. _I'm not sure he understands how much this woman is already drowning under the obligations of such a large family,_ she mused to herself, watching another student and professor interact with her.

Given that the Medical College followed the laws of the land, they did not counsel on matters of family planning, but that did not mean that Julia couldn't or wouldn't be above making a house call to educate the woman herself. After her earlier incarceration and trouble with the authorities concerning birth control, she'd become less vocal, even more so in regards to how such activities might negatively impact William's career after they'd married. Perhaps so, but this didn't mean that she couldn't take such matters quietly into her own hands.

 _Pity that there isn't really an effective nostrum for controlling the size of your family,_ she thought to herself again before remembering with a bitter laugh that alcohol was a contributing factor to many an unplanned pregnancy, including her own back in university.

# # #

"Sir. Mr. Goshen from the _Toronto Gazette_ insists on speaking with you, privately." Constable Henry Higgins cautiously poked his head into his superior's office to deliver this request from the aforementioned newspaper man.

Detective William Murdoch fought his inclination to sigh, grimace or scowl at the interruption. Despite waking up in a wonderful mood after a restful night's sleep in the arms of his loving wife, he was in the grip of a nasty, unyielding headache. William recognized the fact that even Henry, who was generally oblivious to such things, was tip-toeing around him meant that his attempt at covering up being under the weather was not successful—only adding to his misery. William put on a neutral face and agreed to the interview, waving his guest to a chair and at Henry to close the door.

"Mr. Goshen," he said as sternly as possible after the man sat. "I explained to you before that I will not be conducting any interviews about our current cases…"

"Yes. Er…no, I mean that is not why am here. My friend, and fellow newspaper man from the _Toronto Tattler_ , Mr. Norris Snow,is missing and I insist you begin an investigation, immediately." Thomas Goshen ran his Homburg's brim round and round through nervous fingers like he was steering a ship that was battling heavy seas.

"Missing?" William tried to pay attention- at least the sunlight was hitting the back of his head and not blinding him painfully in the eyes.

"Yes. We were to meet first thing this morning and he did not show. He is not at his lodgings and not at his office. I want to officially report him missing."

"I see. And how long has he been missing?" William asked, with his pencil poised over a blank page.

Mr. Goshen tried to sell the importance of his mission with a steady gaze. "Why, since yesterday evening."

William pinched the bridge of his nose. "Mr. Goshen, Mr. Snow is a grown man and less than twelve hours is not gone long enough to be considered missing," he offered reasonably. "He could be ill in hospital, in the midst of a story, in the company of a lady or even recovering from a bout of drinking…"

The reporter abruptly guffawed and sat forward in his seat in a challenging way. "Speaking from _personal_ experience, detective, are we?" He sat back abruptly with a sarcastic smile on his face. "No! None of that checks out for Norris. I tell you he is missing and I suspect foul play, and I... "

William cut him off a little loudly. "…. _And_ your concern is certainly not enough to call on the resources of the constabulary to locate him for you." William was irritated in the extreme to be have his headache mistaken for having a hangover.

"Detective Murdoch. I have been fair to you in the past. My editor and my paper, _The Gazette_ , has been fair to you. _Please!_ Norris is my friend and he would never  not keep a scheduled appointment any more than he would miss a deadline. He is never out of touch like this. I tell you something is terribly wrong!" Mr. Goshen rose to stand.

William winced, looking at the remains of a very nice hat clutched in the reporter's hands, in ruins because of the passion the man felt about his colleague's absence. The detective bit the inside of his cheek and opened his notebook again, looking up at the man who was shaking against the edge of his desk in indignation and worry. "All right, Mr. Goshen. Give me the particulars and I will have a constable make some inquiries. If we have the time."

After writing down the facts and offering no explicit guarantees, William ushered Mr. Goshen out and walked to the bullpen to locate Constable Crabtree. "George? See what you can find out about a Mr. Norris Snow with the _Toronto Tattler_. I am told he may be missing."

George's eyebrows rose as he accepted a sheet of notes. " _May_ be missing, sir? I've met the chap. Seemed like a decent enough fellow. What are the circumstances of his disappearance?" George saw the detective hesitate fleetingly.

"He missed his morning tea," William deadpanned. "Just do your best," he advised solemnly.

George left and the detective surveyed the remaining constables sorting boxes of evidence according to the new systematic record system he was instituting. _My only hope is that the Inspector stays away long enough for me to finish the job_ , he thought, and then chastised himself for wishing the man a longer journey than was necessary. Satisfied with what he saw in the bullpen, William then turned on his heel to go back to composing a report on their most recent case. There was still a lull in actual murders since Inspector Brackenreid's departure, allowing for a certain amount of manpower to be spent towards his desire for improvements and enhanced efficacies.

It was the one bright spot in his workday. Picking up his pen, he dropped his gaze to his desk top and began…

# # #

George thanked Mr. Snow's landlady and tried to shoo her away from the door. The hard-looking woman stood there with her arms crossed and fists balled, suspiciously watching him as he viewed her boarder's room, as if he was going to steal something. From his employer he'd learned that Norris Snow was good at his job and no one believed there was anything amiss; from his landlady he'd already learned that her boarder kept odd hours but was quiet about it, paid his rent on time and seldom ate the food which was put out morning and evening for him and the three other men who lived in the tidy house—all things which made him the ideal renter; therefore she did not want him discommoded in the least. Her eagle-eye was going to make sure of that.

George sighed and surveyed the room, keeping his irritation in check. He was aware that not every member of the constabulary was as honest as he, but his loyalty to the job prevailed, so he allowed her to stand guard. The bed, dresser and washstand seemed ordinary. There was what was to be expected in the wardrobe and drawers at least superficially—the woman refused to let him turn the contents out to check further, pointing out: _Unless you tell me he is arrested for a crime or you have his permission, you will do no more than look, constable! I run a respectable establishment and I will not have anyone's privacy violated. You can't even prove he is missing!_

 _She had a point._ George's attention was therefore fixed on a large wooden kitchen table, apparently being used as a desk, set up with an _Oliver_ typewriting machine, books, a blotter, pens and pencils with their tops carrying teeth marks, and a straight-backed chair pulled up tight against it, all facing the room's single window for maximum light. Small coloured bottles perched on the window sash cast cheery shapes on the smooth writing surface. George frowned and noticed: _There is not a single piece of paper on it._

George compared his own lodgings and his own identity as a writer to his inquiry regarding Norris Snow.

 _I myself write whenever and where ever the muse strikes, always making notes_. Using his imagination, George looked more closely at the room's furnishings for hiding places where papers could be stored, and walked towards the mattress with an urge to turn it over and search underneath. The landlady started rumbling, so he left it alone—there was nothing of interest in plain sight and he had no cause to pry further. He exited the room, hearing a key rather noisily rotating in the lock, knowing the landlady was communicating her displeasure. He thanked her politely and went down stairs to chat with another renter before travelling back to the station house, none the wiser for his efforts.

His superior was still pinned to his desk when George returned with his slim results.

"What have you George? Did you locate Mr. Snow?" William looked up hopefully.

"No sir, I did not." George offered a folded newspaper for the detective to review. "I went 'round to his boarding house and spoke with his landlady, sought out his fellow lodgers, talked with his co-workers at the _Tattler_ and at the local pub where he eats his dinner. His friend is correct—Mr. Snow has not been seen since last evening. However, no one else but Mr. Goshen is surprised or concerned. Even his editor, a Mr. Alexander Wick **,** is not worried. He describes Norris Snow as a good reporter, even though he characterized him as a little 'loose American,' whatever that means, but has yet to miss a deadline. Mr. Wick _was_ rather coy about _exactly_ what story Mr. Snow was working on. He did give me a copy of the next edition of the paper." He gestured to the pages the detective was perusing.

William scrunched his eyes and turned the newspaper pages in his hands to and fro. "There does not seem to be much 'news' in this newspaper."

"Yes, sir. As you can see the _Tattler_ is long on advertisement and rather, um…short on copy. That is why Mr. Wick is so intent on having Norris Snow as a reporter. He hired him away from a paper in Chicago, to write sensational stories that will sell papers. The real money, you know, is in the advertisements, and for that you need a wide circulation."

"Any enemies? Known conflicts or confrontations?" William saw George shake his head. "Vices?" he asked as a follow up.

George replied. "Nothing I discovered today. But, funny you should say that. That was the only thing his editor _would_ tell me: that Mr. Snow was writing about _vice_ in Toronto the Good."

# # #


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"Just look at that, William. There should be a law that says you cannot advertise something unless you are being truthful and accurate!" Julia reached over to rattle the newspaper in her husband's hand. "I don't know what is worse, the extravagant promises they make or the noxious ingredients they use in those concoctions, or the papers that accept money to publish the claims." Home unusually early, the couple was just sitting down to their supper after a long day. William's headache had blessedly dissipated at the same time Julia's temples were throbbing.

"Quite. Although I think the _Tattler_ may be the worst offender." William pushed his copy aside and brought the _Gazette_ to rest between them. "Has that something to do with the frustrations of your day?" He knew Julia needed to vent so opened the door and invited her to do so, metaphorically speaking.

Julia quaffed the remainder of her wine and smiled in appreciation as William refilled her glass. The wine was soothing her head marvelously. Taking a bite of her Chicken Kiev, she closed her eyes and moaned in appreciation, marveling at the genius idea of a chicken breast stuffed with butter and savory herbs. "You know William, I do believe that this is one of my new favorites here, we shall have to pay our compliments to the chef in hopes that he'll offer it again in the future," she remarked taking a sip of her wine.

"If it will elicit such a reaction from you every time, then we must," he remarked with a sly grin and glint in his eye. "Of course, I'm not sure that I care for the competition," he commented with a smirk.

"Oh I assure you, husband, good wine and food will only heighten my appetites for other things," she stated back with a grin of her own. "Oh, but yes, I digress. Yes, these patent medicines, or nostrums as they are sometimes known, are really starting to become an issue. People are taking them in the hopes of curing their ills, but in many cases, it's only masking their symptoms and creating new concerns. It is beyond me why the public will not turn to the modern medical profession with safer treatments such as mercury for infection. It's heartbreaking to see the number of parents who are dosing their newborns with opium to soothe their colic or heroin for alleviating teething pain. Who knows how many deaths officially attributed to other causes are actually an overdose? Of course their parents don't realize this, and think they're actually helping their poor child. It's tragic!"

William was not so sure about the mercury, but said only: "Yes, I must agree. I have been reading some interesting articles written by reporters who call themselves 'investigative journalists', and if many of their claims are true, hopefully our government will take action and create laws that will require those selling salves, tinctures and the like must be able to scientifically prove the claims these manufacturers are making," William commented, taking a bite of his own Chicken Kiev. It seemed that he agreed with Julia, the dish was magnificent.

"Mmm, one can certainly hope. Of course, now I'm going to have to lecture at the college on these nostrums, including why they're worthless and in some cases even dangerous. Then I suppose we'll have to devise some effective ways to counsel our patients against them. Did you know that there's a concoction from Boston called "Lydia Pinkham's Vegetable Compound" which addresses 'female complaints' and that contains licorice and many other things and is also almost 20% alcohol! No wonder it's so popular with women-it's akin to a bottle of whiskey in terms of alcohol by volume. They also have a slogan "A Baby in Every Bottle" so of course women who are desperate to conceive are buying it and if you are not successful this month, one can just buy another bottle next month! Of course there are no rigorous scientific tests concerning its efficacy, no legal regulation, so these claims are unchallenged. It's disgraceful!"

Julia's outrage was discharged by now (as was her own headache) and her thoughts turned elsewhere once she noticed a wry smile on William's lips. "Of course, we could undertake an experiment of our own…" she trailed off suggestively, reaching over to squeeze his knee.

"How can I say no? Anything in the name of science of course. Should we track the number of attempts along with the amounts consumed?" he asked suggestively, arching his eyebrows.

"Now wouldn't that be quite the scientific data to present?" she asked leaning forward towards him.

"It would be most intriguing, certainly," William admitted, leaning forward to kiss her, relishing the taste of wine on her lips. A fine meal and a fine time later…the evening was promising to be most edifying.

Pulling back to smile at one another, they both resumed their dinner, taking another bite, both pleased about what the evening may entail when a knock sounded at the door. Dropping his fork and closing his eyes, he inwardly groaned. There was no doubt that the unexpected caller was from the Constabulary.

Standing up allow to William to finish as much of his meal as was possible, Julia answered the door and let in Higgins.

The young constable's helmet was in his hands. "Sorry to interrupt your evening and your meal sir, but a body has been found."

 _Of course one has,_ he uncharitably thought to himself thinking of his ruined meal and evening plans. He checked his timepiece: barely six forty. _But then, I doubt the poor victim's plans for the evening involved dying,_ he chastised himself.

# # #

"What have you George?" William asked as he escorted Julia towards a dark alley in St. John's Ward. Seeing the growing police presence, curious onlookers now scattered, fearful that they were going to be asked questions.

"Sir. Higgins ordered the scene secured, right down that lane." The constable pointed to an area between two tall buildings that were typical of the area, consisting of office or retail space at ground level and three succeeding tenement stories above. A gate that usually crossed the opening was swung wide.

William followed George to the alleyway entrance and gazed down the dark space where lanterns had been set against the gloom. He suspected a narrow building once occupied the space since he noticed no windows facing the lane, and only one doorway for each building set back in the shadows. _Not likely to be witnesses there_ , he observed as he walked to where the body rested and brought his hand up to touched his forehead and then each shoulder in the sign of the cross. "George, take two of the men and question the folks milling about. This alley seems to be used as a thoroughfare and this is a section of town that supports a wide variety of street life at all hours; surely someone who lives here, a street vendor, worker coming to or from his shift or a prostitute… _someone_ had to have seen something. Remind them that we're asking about a potential murder, not how they were earning an income," William clarified.

"Yes sir." Crabtree snapped to it, taking two of the constables with him. Pleased that Detective Murdoch had asked him to remain, Higgins stood at the ready.

"All right Henry, give me the particulars."

"A Mr. John Evans, a hobo, hailed one of the constables on his beat upon discovering the body. He didn't see or hear anything out of the ordinary, just discovered his body while digging through the trash here. He touched the body thinking it was a rug, but once he realized that it was a dead body, immediately left it alone. He's waiting other there, with Jackson guarding him. We have not otherwise disturbed the scene," Henry informed Julia with a nod towards her.

After a few pictures were taken, Julia asked for assistance in moving the body so as to better inspect it. Now in a better light, she immediately recognized the man, her face blanching.

"I know this man…or at least in passing. This is…let's see, I think his name is Mr. Snow. He came by the clinic perhaps a week ago, seeking information on those very patent medicines we were discussing earlier. I remember him because he made it sound as though he was worried about a family member and wanted to know which medicines ones to recommend or stay away from. I invited him to seek medical treatment from an actual doctor if there as someone in his life who was ailing, but he insisted I give him advice. All I could do is point out the names of the most common concoctions we encounter which he should at all costs avoid as they are nearly useless for any purpose," said Julia. "He thanked me and said that he might be back at a later time with more questions."

William nodded, suddenly aware that they had likely just found their missing man. _It seems that Mr. Goshen had been right to be concerned._ His coat and shirt were half off him as if someone had tried to steal them too but failed, only getting the cufflinks before giving up on the clothes. The shoes were still on the corpse's feet, but it was easy to see how the body could have been overlooked if covered with trash. Checking the man's pockets, he found nothing that would identify the man other than Julia's statement, and nothing of value.

"Henry, when we're done here, we'll need to check the pawn shops. His valuables are gone." While Henry helped set up the litter that would take the corpse into the morgue, William asked Julia for her opinion.

Julia knelt by the body, and turned the man's head so her husband could get a better look. "Well, you can see here he has several cuts and scrapes on his face, and a nasty gash on his head that bled copiously. I'd say his head connected with one of these brick walls—you can see the brick dust." She examined the man's hands as well. "He also has scrapes on his hands. I will have to see what his tissues look like under his clothes, but my first impression is that he was beaten and left to die. You can see some emesis here? It is not unusual for someone to be sick after receiving a head trauma—he could have aspirated the vomit as well…see how his skin is slightly bluish as if he did not get enough oxygen? I do think he died right here, however." She pointed to the ground underneath the body and the large blood stain that soaked the cobblestones and the detritus pushed up against the alley wall where Mr. Snow's crumpled body lay. "That may mean the time of his beating may not be the time of his death, which, by the feel of his head and jaw, between two and six hours ago. "

"So, as late as five this afternoon and as long ago as one o'clock?"

She raised her hand for William to assist her up to stand beside him. "Yes. But remember he could have been lying here for a while before he succumbed to his wounds. The temperature in the alley is also cooler than the surrounding area, so I will have to make a calculation based on liver temperature back at my morgue. I will do a preliminary assessment tonight, then a full autopsy tomorrow.May I take the body, detective?"

"Yes, doctor." William smiled briefly at the habitual use of titles. "Henry? Ask Jackson to bring Mr. Evans over. Then after you get this man on the wagon to the morgue, please check the pawnbrokers and small shops that might trade valuable items for alcohol or other goods, and have constables look for any spots his other effects could have been disposed of." He helped Julia rise and held her hand for a second, regret at missing out on their evening's plans banished by impending duty. "Julia, I assume you will ride back to the morgue with the wagon?"

Before she left, William asked her to look at Mr. Evan's hands, just in case there was evidence of a recent fight on the man's fists, then the couple parted: Julia on her way to the morgue and the detective to follow up with George, who appeared to have rounded up two witnesses.

"Thank you George. We have a tentative identification that the victim is Mr. Norris Snow, the journalist from the _Toronto Tattler_ you were inquiring after this morning. When we are done here, please go around to his lodging and this time search his room, and let his editor, Mr. Wick, know we found the body, as well that we will need to interview him again, tonight. Henry is going to search the pawnshops since the victim appears to have been robbed. I will on call Mr. Goshen to give him the news." He turned to the two men his constable had in tow. "Now. These men have something pertinent to offer?"

"Yes sir." George made introductions. "This is Mr. Charles Baker and this chap is Mr. Peter Lowell. They both work at the Morse Soap Company. According to them, at shift change some workers use the closed off alley as a short cut, because to be late is to risk losing their jobs."

"Detective William Murdoch, Toronto Constabulary," he introduced himself. "What can you tell me about this area?"

The two men eyed each other and Peter Lowell nudged his companion into speaking. "Shifts at the soap-works is 12 hours, twenty-four hours a day, six days a week," Charles Baker began nervously. "Just before six in the morning, we was through that alleyway and di'n't see nothing amiss, even though it were darkish out. Just after six tonight we was going on home and saw old ' _John-ee'_ come running out like he were set on fire."

"I take it _'John-ee'_ is Mr. John Evans, the man who found the body?" William asked.

"If you say so, we dunno his real name, but he makes his rounds at shift change. He mebee used to work at the factory until he got hurt," Lowell added.

William wanted to know one thing: "Based on your experience, do you think it is possible for the body to have been there when you went into the factory before six this morning?"

# # #

Despite the late hour and fully realizing that he would be calling the man away from his own dinner and evening plans, William requested that the editor of the _Tattler_ , Alexander Wick be brought in immediately. William needed to know exactly what the man knew and hoped to get a positive identification on the victim.

Approximately an hour later, Mr. Wick arrived at the station, pale and visibly shaken. "Is it true what your constable says? Is Mr. Snow truly dead?" he asked.

"Well, Mr. Wick, I was hoping that you could provide a positive identification for our victim and then perhaps you can tell me everything you know," William countered.

The editor winced at the thought of encountering a dead body up and close; William thought the man might object, and was surprised that a newspaper man would have a weak stomach for the more grotesque features of life, considering his occupation. But swallowing hard, Mr. Wick nodded and took a deep breath, determined to do his duty. "Of course, Detective. Mr. Snow doesn't have any family locally so as his employer, I have the responsibility of verifying that it is indeed him," he agreed.

Anxious to get things going so that he could get home and get to bed before it got any later, William took the man to the morgue at once, hoping he could still catch Julia. Besides the fact that he was hoping he could see her, he was also hoping that he could ask her to observe his interview with Mr. Wick, to help determine whether or not the man was being forthcoming.

"Not exactly how we planned on spending this evening, is it?" William asked under his breath, taking the keys from her and locking the morgue doors, with Mr. Wick in the laneway ahead of them supported by a constable.

"No, it isn't. But luckily I will settle for a bit of canoodling under the covers and a shoulder massage," she countered in a whisper as they walked back over to the station house.

"I believe we have a deal then," William agreed just as quietly.

Once in the station house, Julia announced her presence as necessary for part of the autopsy process, and she sat as unobtrusively as possible in the corner of the interview room while her husband and the editor settled around the large wooden table.

"Detective Murdoch, what happened to Norris?" Mr. Wick asked solemnly.

William thought this was a question spoken the way a friend might ask, rather than a newspaperman following a lead, but for the detective keeping control of the interview was paramount. "We are in the process of discovering that. Our working theory is that he was assaulted and robbed, then left for dead. Today is pay day for most workers—is that true for your newspaper?"

The editor winced. "Yes. It was. This is horrible, detective. Just awful."

William began to ask Mr. Wick what he knew, starting with his employment at the _Tattler._

"I recently brought him to Toronto from Chicago, where he made a great splash there with some of his investigative reporting. I know our publication doesn't enjoy the greatest of reputations, but I am trying to change that. I've only been editor for a few months myself and I'm trying to increase our readership. People love reading these sensational 'muckraking' pieces of you will, and my thought was that if we were to publish more of them, we would sell more papers," Mr. Wick explained.

"Why did Mr. Snow agree to move from Chicago? Were you offering him more money?" William asked.

"No, I heard from a friend that he had run into a bit of trouble in that city and was looking for a fresh start. It was quite a stretch for me to offer him what he had been earning per article in Chicago, but I agreed to his request, as I knew he would deliver the articles that would help sell more papers. He'd been writing small articles about local crime and corruption, but I do know that he'd been wanting to write a series of stories on medical fraud and useless potions sold as medicines to the unwary here in Toronto, similar to what he did in the States. I didn't tell him no, but I did tell him that I wouldn't be publishing them at present time, so as not to offend many of our advertising clients, who deal and trade in that very thing," he stated.

William furrowed his brow, recalling the quantity of printed announcements and advertisements in the _Tattler_ pages he previewed earlier. "You told him you didn't want to offend the advertisers right now, but you wouldn't rule it out for the future? Why?"

"I still need their money, Detective," Mr. Wick said without the least embarrassment. "Eventually, I would have liked to have gotten away from them, but with Norris Snow gone, those plans are in peril unless I can find someone of his caliber. I told him that I needed him to produce articles that would boost our sales numbers, and once that happened, we would be less dependent upon the income from such snake-oil salesmen, and could then appeal to a better class of advertising clients. He said he understood, and asked if he could still work on the story so that it would be ready to go once it could be safely published. I agreed, but I asked him to be discreet and to not tell anyone about it. He said that he would." Mr. Wick said.

"Mr. Wick, what other stories was Mr. Snow working on that you were aware of?" William asked.

"As I said, Mr. Snow was quite versatile. He'd been writing pieces that featured shocking crime stories, political pieces, as well as true investigative journalism- and they were proving popular. He could also write the most sensationalist copy I'd ever seen. I also know that he was working on another major story that was not about patent medicines, but he did not tell me what it was about. He assured me that it would be about predilections towards vice, scandalous or titillating in nature, and would sell papers, but it would not offend any of our current advertisers. Unfortunately, he never told me what it concerned and I'm sorry now that I never asked. He was unconventional: he never came into the office before noon, but that was because he did most of his research at night and as he never missed a deadline, I never complained as his methods got results. He was also always producing stories - he was the most prolific writer on staff, and his pieces were undoubtedly the most popular," the man stated with a sad air, thinking of what could have been.

"Mr. Wick, may we come to the offices tomorrow and search Mr. Snow's belongings and speak to your staff?"

"Of course, the entire office is at your disposal."

After thanking the man for his time and seeing him out at half past ten, William and Julia were not far behind him in exiting the station to return to their suite.

Julia shared her impressions. "I don't think he's your murderer, William. He seemed uncomfortable about being with the body, but he wasn't nervous in answering your questions. Besides, what would his motive be?" she asked as they climbed into the carriage.

"I concur. Mr. Snow was an instrumental in making the _Tattler_ a more high profile periodical, if not yet more respectable, and it served to make Mr. Wick a wealthier man. He has lost that booster to his bottom line, and doesn't seem happy about it at all," he agreed, stroking her thigh with his hand. It was far too late to enjoy the plans that he hoped for, but perhaps he could initiate some affection while riding back to the hotel.

Not much else was said as some of the long-awaited romantic overtures took place in the cab; enjoying kisses as their hands explored one another's bodies. William realized, belatedly, that they were stopped and was curious for how long. Too embarrassed to ask or even make contact with the driver, William hurriedly paid the man and quickly rushed Julia into the hotel, well aware that it probably looked like a clandestine affair, seeing as neither had any luggage to accompany them.

As they entered their room, both of them couldn't help but look longingly at their abandoned dinner. The meal, absolutely delicious while still hot, was most unappetizing cold, the warm butter having long ago congealed on the plate. Salvaging some rolls to tide them over, they called for some tea to accompany them and for the dinner remains to be collected, settling for a meager sustenance before going to bed.

"It's a shame about dinner. The kitchen is going to think we didn't enjoy it at all, when we actually did," Julia lamented as she gazed longingly at her long forgotten and ruined dinner.

"Then we must give our regards to the Chef and make our entreaties for him to prepare it again," William agreed.

"Yes, we must. Perhaps we can ask him to make it for us tomorrow night and maybe we could try our other plans again then as well," Julia asked, wrapping her arms around him to kiss him.

Just as the kiss deepened, the knock at the door signaled the arrival of their tea and the departure of their ruined meal. Groaning softly, William laid his forehead against hers, "That sounds wonderful," he admitted before pulling away to answer the door.

The small evening repast of bread and tea was a hurried affair, and at half past eleven they slipped beneath the covers and briefly continued with the more of the promised _canoodling, but not the_ massage he had promised her, William realized only after Julia had already fallen asleep.

As he waited for slumber to overtake him, he made a mental note to make good on his offer of a nice massage tomorrow evening, along with arranging for Chicken Kiev to be served once again as well as obtaining a bottle of Lydia E. Pinkham's Vegetable Compound, for laughs. His last thoughts of the night were trying to think of ways in which he could scientifically measure their intimate relations, and note the variables and differences. Even if the thought had been uttered in jest, it did sound rather intriguing to him, a nice dimension to add to his already enjoyable relations with Julia.

# # #


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

First thing the next morning, William dropped Julia off at the morgue to conduct a full autopsy with Miss James on Mr. Snow, while over at the station house, he conferred with George and Henry over the evidence the constables obtained from searching the reporter's lodgings and searching for the victim's missing valuables. The three of them compiled the findings with what was known so far about Norris Snow; the detective had already pulled his chalkboard out and drew a grid with straight even lines.

Henry began. "We found no other witnesses willing to come forward. I found his watch and a pen had indeed been pawned together yesterday about seven blocks away, by a large soft-spoken man in a large black coat—or a small man in a large coat…" Higgins coughed, then shrugged, when the detective raised his eyebrows. "The shop-keep was unclear about a description, other than seeing a large silhouette; it was definitely not the homeless man, John Evans, who found the body. The shop-keep said the man had clean hands and, er… did not _smell_. The time was about half past five in the afternoon. We found some of Mr. Snow's identification – a library subscription card and a wad of calling cards stuffed in the trash a block away from the pawnshop. No billfold or change purse and no money, of course." He put his notebook down. "If the robber had anything else, whether he threw it out or left it in the open, it is long gone. Nothing goes to waste in that neighborhood. In addition, if someone _local_ did the robbery, then he also did not flash any of the cash in the neighborhood—we had no indications of that, no gossip at all when we canvassed the streets and shops and saloons."

William thought that was an insightful comment. "Thank you, Henry, well done. We have no idea if the person who pawned the watch and pen was the murderer, the robber—both or neither. However, it seems we can indeed rule out Mr. Evans as either the killer _or_ the robber, especially since Dr. Ogden does not think the homeless man was involved in any sort of altercation and it is beyond reasonable he would return to the scene of the crime and blatantly discover the body. I believe we can cross him of the list."

The detective did just that. "George what did you find?"

"Mr. Snow had only what you would expect in terms of personal effects in his room—three suits, one of which is marvelously tailored and exceptionally expensive, shirts, a pair brogans and one set of boots, undergarments, grooming paraphernalia, some medicine bottles, a bank book, calendar, a half empty whiskey bottle…really nothing out of the ordinary. I found no cash money other than some loose change. He lives simply and his bank account was healthy enough." George reached his hand into the evidence box and placed items one at a time on the detective's worktable. "I found several reference books from the library on a wide range of subjects—including the law, the history of Toronto and medicine. He seems to have been working on a novel, the manuscript for which was under his mattress in a leather brief, plus he had several very fine pens," George paused only briefly to admire the heft and balance of one before moving on. He quirked his mouth in a sly grin. "I took the liberty of leafing through the novel—it is rather risqué, and I suspect he did not want his landlady to know about it which is why it was hidden. I have to admit if I knew that newspaper writing paid so well I might have turned to that instead of the novel form…" George felt Henry's nudge and got back in track. "Er…He had no personal letters, which I thought was odd, and he had a series of maps, including this one." George spread a damaged rectangle of paper out for his superior to look at. "I suppose that should not be unusual as he only recently moved to town."

William took the page and held it up to the light for a moment, then replaced it on top of the pile. "Henry, please ask Constable Stanton to take fingermarks off the watch and pen—not that I expect to find much at this point, and look at whatever fingermarks you can get from the calling cards to start comparisons with our exemplars. I want a list of names off the cards as well, for us to look at as sources of information if we need it, ask one of the other men to stay back and do that. It still seems to be a robbery, since his editor said he got his weekly pay the day he went missing, and so far no money has been found."

"Sir? Do we know what he was doing over by the soap-works in the first place?" Henry asked.

George piped in. "Do we know if it was related to one of his news stories?"

"Very good questions. No, we do not." William crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the meager lists on his ever-present chalkboard. "We have a tentative motive, a large window for time of death so therefore an ill-defined timeline for opportunity, and no definitive means." He looked at the time. "Gentlemen. We will have to wait for Dr. Ogden and Miss James to finish their work to answer two of those questions. In the meantime, Henry, please get someone to look in the records for any felons who fit the profile of beating someone to rob them, cross checking with those who inhabit the ten square blocks around the crime scene."

William sent his constables about their duty, and he turned back to contemplate the evidence, such as it was. He seldom allowed himself to feel sentimental since it clouded one's judgement, but every once in a while the remains of a human life struck him as sad and hollow. He glanced at the manuscript, and the reference books. None of it appeared particularly revealing. He pulled the map off the top of the pile and held it up to the light. Rather than randomly caused by tacking the map to a wall with a pin, the pin holes seemed to follow a pattern. His mind flipped through some of the recent reports he had on various crimes, and settled on another map which he'd recently seen.

 _Vice! Didn't Mr. Wick from the Tattler say that Mr. Snow was investigating_ _vice_ _in Toronto the Good?_

William excitedly pawed through the wide, flat drawers of his map chest. Finding the street survey he wanted, he put his own map side by side with the one George found in Norris Snow's room. A knowing smile blossomed on his face. _Mr. Snow was looking into prostitution! He has indicated locations of known brothels and neighborhoods where streetwalkers ply their trade._

Looking out at the bullpen, William saw George and Henry, thinking: _Here might be the answer to both of their earlier questions._ Like hiding his novel from his landlady, it seemed Mr. Snow had a habit of secrecy—William wanted to know why.

Logic stated that as the higher-ranking constable, William should take Higgins to canvas the brothels, but common sense mandated that taking the aspirational lady-killer known as Henry Higgins to a brothel would be asking for trouble at a time when great delicacy was needed. William laid the maps out and copied out the addresses and locations into separate defined search areas to assign to his men.

He came out of his office and called out. "Gentlemen. We have a new lead on Mr. Snow's death. I now believe he was looking into prostitution in some way because he has made a map of where those services are obtainable. It might have been why he was near the soap works in the first place. We have thought it must be a male who beat him, but it is not unheard of for a female to rob one of her customers, or her pimp to protect his investment in a girl. Perhaps it went too far. I have divided the search area into four sections. Higgins, Jackson?' He handed Henry as page of paper. "I need you two to take a photograph of Mr. Snow and show it to the streetwalkers around the docks in these areas. I'd like the rest of you to take a photograph, form up in pairs and discover if Mr. Snow has had any contacts with the ladies. Find out what they know. George? You will accompany me to the brothels and we will do the same," William instructed.

"Sir, given George's penchant for ladies at such employment, perhaps it would be better if I go," Higgins interjected.

His eyes flashing in anger, George turned on his sometime-friend. "Higgins! I hardly think you would exercise restraint in such a place. In fact, I wouldn't put it past you to use your position to gain favors with the ladies. In fact…" he began.

"Enough. I've made my decisions and as acting Inspector, you are to consider them orders. Higgins, you'll have to search for potential lady friends on your own time, **NOT** police time," William barked.

Somewhere in the background, Constable Jackson and other constables were heard snickering. "Come along Henry, maybe you can ask them if they have special police rates and return later this evening," Jackson chided. More snickering ensued.

"Move along, gentlemen!" William ordered. "George?" he asked, gesturing towards the door, and noticing the constable's smirk. "We will be visiting the bordellos, but first, I think, to the _Tattler_."

"Yes sir, allow me to get my helmet." George replied.

# # #

Later….. George went down the steps ahead of his detective, carting their box of evidence to a police carriage waiting for them on the street. Grunting in effort he asked, "Detective, what do you make of Mr. Wick's assertion that Norris Snow had not been in Toronto long enough to have made any enemies? That seems rather naïve."

"I agree, George, considering what Mr. Snow had been writing about…" William paused with a new thought. "… _Supposedly_ writing about. I am almost wondering if Mr. Snow was pulling the wool over his editor's eyes in some way; perhaps he was not actually writing the stories he sold to the paper… considering the lack of notes or rough drafts in his office. You did say that his rooms offered no evidence of him keeping his work there." 

"Plagiarism?" George was shocked.

"Well, it is something to consider—Mr. Wick said Mr. Snow was prolific—what if that was because he was not the author of what he passed off as his own work? I want you to check into the angle, and see if that was part of the spot of trouble he had in Chicago that drove him out of that town- out of the country for that matter. It makes me wonder if this prostitution angle is we are about to embark on will be a dead end."

"I see what you mean about that. His fellow reporter, Mr. Bannon did confide he thought if Mr. Snow was visiting bordellos it wasnot for business, but strictly pleasure. However, Mr. Bannon did not approve of how Mr. Snow spent his free time, he kept going on about what a reprobate the man was, and how sinful he was for visiting such places. Although it is hard to imagine that anyone would be so diligent in locating the services of women that he'd need a map…." George gave an order for the carriage to return to the station house to deliver and secure the evidence, while he and the detective would walk a mere two blocks to the address of the first brothel on their list. "Well, he worked on _something,_ typing away." George stopped and smirked. "Although, I can imagine an enterprising man developing a guidebook of sorts for fellow travelers new to town, where one could…"

He stifled the next ideas because he did _not_ need to actually _hear_ it - a sharp " _George!"_ coming in a frustrated manner coming from the detective. The constable cleared his throat and went on, smiling to himself and deciding it was not a bad idea after all. "Still," he said in a serious tone, "there do not appear to be many leads through his office however, everyone seems broken up about his death, even the secretary… even if she did complain about how particular he was about his writing equipment, his pens, he did have very nice pens sir, demanding a certain quality of the paper he used, even changing the typewriter ribbons after a single run through—His editor, Mr. Wick at least thought the eccentricity and extravagance were worth it. I suppose professional jealousy could be a motive."

"Perhaps. It is possible we did not get everyone's honest opinion of Mr. Snow; no one willing to speak ill of the dead. The funeral hasn't even happened yet, and I suppose we may get more information trickling out in the next few days. But, you saw the headline for today's _Tattler_ evening edition: Mr. Wick is using his employee's demise to sell more papers. He is proving to be an unsentimental soul." William scowled at the unseemliness of it all, almost bypassing by the first address on their list—a non-descript one-story white brick house with black trim and no entrance door visible from the street. Considering it was early yet (by the standards of the sex-trade) William expected to have to rouse the house to conduct his interview.

"Ah—here we are. George, we can take turns-will you do the honours?"

# # #

William had had to guess about a couple of addresses which indicated houses of ill-repute; matching the pin holes on Norris Snow's map to the locations of bordellos known to the constabulary was not an exact science. Many of them were rather small or fly-by-night rooms, consisting of a single woman who sold herself, or a pair who looked out for each other, picking up stakes when either the law or some other party took exception to their commerce, while others were well-established consisting of large private homes and a stable of girls overseen by a ubiquitous "Madam."

His still felt the blood in his face from sheer embarrassment and humiliation at knocking on the last door and assuming he'd find a call girl and instead confronted a Mother Superior who had taken over the residence for her Sisters only a week before. George tried in vain to distract him from his misery.

"Well, sir, after all. It _was_ possible that the lady was not really a religious person and only wearing a costume. I had to ask, didn't I? My aunt Petunia had a gentleman caller who asked her to dress as a milkmaid one time. Perhaps there are men who fantasize about nuns…"

William had a sudden, intrusive image which caused him to shudder. "Enough! You are _not_ helping." He swerved to grab George's uniform tunic. Under his breath in a controlled, even voice he stated: "And if you _**ever**_ repeat this story no one will ever find your remains—and you know I'd know how to do that!" He saw George's eyes get wide and then a grin settle back on his face.

"Of course sir. Won't do my reputation any favours either. Ah—here we are. Number seventeen on our list." George waited to allow the detective to knock on this door first, himself.

"Let us hope it is 'lucky' seventeen. Six and a half hours of this have not been fruitful," William commented. Unlike when the two of them started out this morning knocking on doors, the day had worn on so that by the afternoon the brothels were coming to life, with most of the inhabitants and workers at last awake and likely to answer the door quickly. So far, the pair had showed Norris Snow's photographs at eleven addresses (or attempted to show—five others had been abandoned or transferred to new tenants) following a mathematical search pattern for maximum efficiency.

George took the detective's word for that. _My feet still hurt from all the tramping around,_ he groused, then he tried not to laugh at his own joke about 'tramps'…

Most of the addresses clustered within a few blocks. The story was the same at each: Norris Snow's picture was vaguely familiar, but unless a particular man stood out for either extremely positive or negative reasons, all the clientele, especially of the average-looking-late-twenty-to-early-thirties-medium-build-Caucasian-male variety, sort of blended together in the women's minds.

More than one of the ladies suggested that they'd have remembered such a handsome _detective_ if he had a mind to enjoy an evening out. The propositioning went from embarrassing, especially with George in attendance, to uncomfortable to annoying and now it was just…old.

Either Mr. Snow was a one-time visitor, used a disguise, or some other subterfuge—regardless, he did not make any particular impression. Unless Henry and the other men discovered something on their beats, William was ready to believe that Mr. Bannon was wrong: Norris Snow sought sexual relief anywhere but with payment to a female.

This particular house _did_ make an impression. It was large and imposing on a corner lot, with broad eaves and arched windows, set back far enough from the sidewalk in front to make it hard for a passer-by to peek in. William noted to the right of the structure was a wide driveway leading to a carriage house in the rear and a service alley behind that, with a quiet side street to the left, making it well situated for discretion. It was one of the two 'high end' establishments extant in Toronto and he had been to this place before when it had been Madam Dupree's establishment back in 1902 at the time Mr. Masterson was in Toronto.

A tall, hatchet-faced man in butler's livery answered the door. "Bon après-midi," the man intoned.

The detective did not believe for a second the servant was French-speaking by birth and was tired enough to have no time for pretense. "Detective William Murdoch, Toronto Constabulary. This is Constable George Crabtree. We are here on official business investigating a murder. I need to speak with everyone in residence here." When the butler hesitated, William set his foot on the threshold. "Please announce us—if only to get us off your doorstep."

William proceeded followed by Constable Crabtree, into a wide foyer open to the _salon,_ where they waited on the Madam. The _salon_ space was familiar but the décor was totally revamped. In place of over-done red velvets, the furnishings were cream and blue with an excellent landscape over the fireplace. Aubusson carpets covered the gleaming floors. The chandeliers were lead crystal.

William bridled his discomfort, as it was hardly the first brothel he'd ever been in. For a moment he remembered seeing Ettie Weston again, after so many years, teasing him about how it was possible for anyone to sneak in or out of a locked establishment if they had the will…just as he had once to see _her_ during the course of a case. This place was also nothing like Ettie's. _It looks like what I imagined a refined drawing room in an old European mansion looked like—except for the illustrations of sexual acts prominently displayed on the walls, tasteful_ _and_ _explicit, if that combination was at all possible. Julia would be intrigued and I must admit, I am as well._

The scintillating sexual positions aside, the inventor in William could not help but admire some of the unique pieces of furniture for the act of love which were therein depicted. He thought he was protecting George from corruption by drawing his constable's attention away from the pornography to a grand piano set up by the window, but George made a beeline for the large framed sketches, accompanied by the start of a story about one if his aunts. Of course, remembering that George had essentially been raised by prostitutes and had even had a dalliance with a burlesque performer, William acknowledged that George was probably already aware of such things. _Perhaps more so than me,_ he reminded himself.

William was grateful when the Madam, a handsome woman who gave her name as Marie-Elise Le Chabanais, swept through the archway a few minutes later. Unfortunately, Mme. Le Chabanais caught George leaning over a divan to get a better look at one of the depictions on the wall.

"Monsieur, do you like? I am told you are from the _Gendarmes._ Is this a private call or are you here on business?" She did not wait for an answer before explaining that the drawings helped her clientele choose their desires for the evening—much like a menu. William had to cut George off from expressing how clever he thought that was, to get them down to business.

Mme. Le Chabanais was enraged in much less than two minutes after hearing Mr. Snow, whose photograph she recognized, was a reporter—not just _any_ kind of reporter—but the muckraking kind. William noticed her accent faltered the more upset she got, which he took as a sure sign she was: 1) also not a native French speaker; and 2) probably telling the truth when she said she was completely unaware of Snow's occupation before hearing about it from the constabulary. To her, he presented himself as the heir to part of the Hudson's' Bay Company, introduced by another regular client. _Perfectly respectable,_ she insisted.

Her fear about exposing her business to the wrong sort of publicity bought the cooperation of her employees, who were agreeable to be interviewed in their boudoirs by the two lawmen. George took the ladies on the first floor and William the second floor. They completed their interviews rapidly and met on the sidewalk to hail a cab.

"What did you think, Sir?" George was a little afraid to ask. He himself was comfortable in such places, although he had never indulged as a customer and certainly never seen such elaborate rooms set up for a man's pleasure before. Detective Murdoch seemed composed, apparently unmoved by what he'd found. "It seems to be a nice place. The ladies are well cared for, make a decent, er…wage, and seem to get along with the management. I suppose I have a hard time seeing this as being all that bad…"

William was unconvinced about that but thoughtful about the case. Mr. Snow was a regular customer, had no favourite girl, and was well enough liked by the ladies. He spent a great deal of time in the _salon_ chatting with other men, was polite and charming and did not become intoxicated. "I am not sure what I think, George. Mr. Snow used a pseudonym and gave a false story about himself—hardly unusual for a man who desires anonymity for his predilections."

"Do you think it leads to his killer?" George went right to the bottom line.

"It occurs to me an establishment like this is a great place for a reporter to rendezvous with contacts, with no one else being the wiser."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Detective Murdoch was holding court in his office at the end of a long day of slogging through information, interviews and papers, looking for anything that even vaguely resembled evidence.

"Gentlemen, what do we know? We have a window for time of death as between one o'clock and five o'clock, which Dr. Ogden may be able to refine a bit further; but keep in mind the time of the assault may not be the time of death. The victim was beaten there in the alley and his valuables were stolen before five o'clock; that is if one rather incurious pawn-broker gave us the correct time. They were pawned a few blocks away by an unknown, non-descript man, but, oddly enough, Mr. Snow's money has not turned up."

Several of the constables chuckled at their detective's dry but deliberate levity, and he let them laugh to reduce the tension and disappointment of the investigation before continuing. "Constable Stanton has completed looking at fingermarks—no matches." He checked one box off his blackboard with a chalk swoop. "Constable Brightman found several men with assault-robbery convictions which involved beating a man, a subset of them associated with the soap-works neighborhood. None of them has panned out so far as suspects." He marked off another box. "The calling cards the victim had in his wallet included his tailor, a gentlemen's club and several for charitable organizations in the Toronto area—the Knights of St. George soup kitchen is the only one even marginally associated with the crime scene." He looked at the remaining empty boxes. "We still have no idea why he was in that area and if it was related to his work as a journalist or merely happenstance. The only lead we had was a guess that Mr. Snow was investigating prostitution—and that was going to provide some rationale for the victim's presence in that neighborhood."

Henry gave his summary for the men who broadcast Norris Snow's photograph on the docks and the streets where women sold themselves and George managed to report, without editorial comment, on the various brothels, particularly Mme. Le Chabanais' house where Mr. Snow appears to have been a garden variety customer. None of it was particularly illuminating and William did not wish to speculate in public whether or not Mr. Snow might have used Mme. Le Chabanais' premises for another kind of assignation. "So far we have only a strong motive—robbery, and we are weak in the other necessary areas."

Jackson was the one who put the real question out there. "So what is our next move, detective? Seems like this is all a dead end."

"I tend to agree. We need to ask other station houses if there are any recent cases like this in their precincts—that is data that will not yet be found in constabulary reports. Put in a call this evening so we can have information by the morning. Other people must have used that alleyway, that gate across it would not stop anyone, as evidenced by its regular use as s short cut—find them. It is possible the robber is just laying low, so set up informants. Dr. Ogden will have more results this evening, so hopefully that will narrow time of death further and give us more trace evidence." He looked over the men crowded into his office. "We convene tomorrow after inspection. There are calling hours for Mr. Snow before his funeral, and I'd like the constabulary to be represented. Until then, good night, gentlemen, and thank you." William motioned to George to hold back. "I want you to investigate Mr. Snow's time in Chicago. You are a writer and somewhat familiar with that world—see what you can come up with. See if he stole from any other writers and learn all you can about why he left town."

"You have a hunch, sir?"

"No George. Just following all possible leads."

Truth be told, William was somewhat conflicted when he walked into the morgue at half past six to get the final autopsy results and to take Julia home for the night. Being in the brothels and listening to the theater of ego that was undoubtedly performed by the ladies there had been somewhat amusing and yet arousing at the same time, tempered with the knowledge that many of them were there not necessarily by choice but due to circumstance, which was disconcerting.

However, seeing of some of the furniture in these establishments had also been exciting to say the least. As he'd stood in one boudoir, he couldn't help but stare at a piece of furniture known as a _Siege D'amour_ or a 'love-machine' and find it most intriguing. It allowed the woman or man to take some very unusual positions and allowed for some angles of connection William had not considered possible. Of course he and Julia had used a particular table a few times for a change of pace, but William had truly never considered a specific piece of furniture used especially for such a purpose before and he found that he could not stop thinking about it. He debated telling Julia about it…he suspected she would find such a thing titillating, but he was also concerned about whether or not such things were too depraved and led to dark places. _At least such scandalous thoughts are of my wife now,_ he rationalized to himself. _Is it truly depravity to desire such a rendezvous with your wife?_

Seeing her sitting at her desk, pulling at her corset in discomfort while stretching her muscles made William smile as his mind continued on his previous train of thought. As soon as they arrived back in their suite, he would personally remove the offending garment and belatedly offer the previously promised neck and shoulder massage. He'd already contacted the hotel and had arranged for Chicken Kiev to be served again tonight precisely at 7:30. He'd also stopped at a small apothecary and picked up a bottle of Lydia E. Pinkham's Herbal Compound that was currently tucked away in his breast pocket. A quick sniff had reminded him of the absinthe that he'd long ago enjoyed with Julia, most likely due to the licorice inside.

Hearing his footfall and immediately recognizing who it was, Julia turned around and smiled back at him. "Good evening, Detective. I don't suppose you're here to offer that massage you forgot about last night by any chance, are you?"

"Oh, that's not the only thing I haven't forgotten about, Doctor. I've come to listen to your findings on what caused the death of Mr. Snow and then escort you home, where you shall receive your massage along with other things that were mentioned last night," William replied, running his hands along her shoulders and down her arms. He smiled again feeling her tense for a moment before leaning back into him, enjoying the sound of her breath as it hitched.

"Well, we shall not tarry any longer than necessary, then," she replied, standing up and walking over to the cooler where his body was to begin her verbal report. "Norris Snow was a well-nourished thirty one year old man who had no particular health concerns other than a massive cold at the time of his death."

"We found cold remedy bottles in his effects. He had several in fact," William mentioned. "It seems that despite writing about these remedies in the States, he still consumed them."

"Yes," Julia continued, pulling the sheet back farther. "As you can see, Mr. Snow _was_ badly beaten. The backs of his arms show the defensive wounds one would expect from such an action, and the undersides of his arms do not show such bruising, consistent with a defensive posture. But I do not think he was beaten with fists—he was most likely slammed against the wall and kicked. The head wound was the most serious and would have stunned him—and of course they do tend to bleed so freely." Julia showed William the cleaned scalp wound—it was a ragged tear in the flesh, certainly the source of all the blood at the scene. "But that did not in fact kill him. However, if you'll note the large bruise on his right arm here alongside his vein, you'll notice that it does not fit the pattern of the rest of the injuries," she explained.

"I see. That bruise does stand out as strange. But I'm assuming that there's more than just an odd mark?" he asked.

"There is," she continued. Grabbing a magnifying glass from her worktable, she handed it to him. "You will recall his coat and shirt were half pulled off—initially I assumed someone was trying to steal his clothing. If you look closely at the bruise, you'll see a puncture mark right where the vein is," she instructed. "Most medical injections are subcutaneous not intravenous. This mark led me to test his blood and find that there was a potentially lethal dose of heroin in his system. That, I believe was the method of murder, a syringe being the weapon."

William asked for clarification. "Isn't heroin usually taken internally? But this is an injection. Are you sure it was not self-administered? Or that he was not a habitué?"

"Quite sure. In the first place, Mr. Snow was apparently right handed—you can see where the ink stains are on his right hand, on the fingers, here." Julia uncovered the hand and showed the evidence to her husband. "There are no other injection marks on his body. I imagine that finding a vein was a mistake—but not one Mr. Snow made."

"So, how did someone accomplish this?" He frowned, trying to think through the implications. Use of opium or abuse of heroin for that matter, could certainly be a _vice_ , but this was the first piece of evidence to indicate drugs played a part in the reporter's death. _Just how many vices was this man looking into—and for work or pleasure?_

Julia reached for a folder and opened it. "It was not just heroin I found in his system. Initial toxicology reveals exposure to arsenic, strychnine and cyanide as well as alcohol. Possibly in one of the horrid patent medicines he might have taken for his cold. Indeed, some people never learn, eh?"

"Or someone trying to poison him?" William asked suspiciously.

Julia paused. "Interesting thought, detective. Miss James and my students will do a more detailed analysis of his tissues and stomach contents and have the results for you tomorrow. I might even be able to match it to the exact recipe of the medicine. As for the proximate cause of death, I suspect that someone beat him soundly and then took advantage of his debilitated state to administer a fatal amount of heroin, hoping perhaps to make it look like he did it to himself and overdosed by mistake. They made an error when they got the wrong arm."

"Do you think all of this happened in the alley? If so, then this has to be premeditated to bring some heroin along…." William's quizzical expression telegraphed his doubt.

Julia merely shrugged her shoulders. "I cannot imagine that he was beaten someplace _else_ and then deposited there—too much blood at the scene. Cause of death is my area. Manner of death is yours, detective…thankfully not mine."

"Any further ideas about time of death?" he asked hopefully.

"His digestive track was unrevealing. If I take liver temperature and blood coagulation into consideration and how rapidly a heroin overdose could kill someone, I can only narrow the time of death down to a two-hour window: three o'clock to 5 o'clock. I'm sorry, but that is the best I can do. I do believe he was beaten and then injected and left to die. The assault could have happened earlier."

He took out his notebook and wrote a few lines. "I see. Thank you for trying. I will need to have the men reexamine the area around the crime scene to look for the syringe." William sighed. "Well, I suppose that narrows my suspect list. I'm not looking for some nameless street thug then. An enemy, a rival, a lover, even his landlady…"

"I'd say those are all excellent candidates to consider," Julia agreed. "In fact, the combination of arsenic, strychnine and cyanide would be perfect for a genteel method of poisoning someone in their tea—they just did not get the combination quite right, and heroin is readily available."

Laughing softly at the mental image of some innocent eggshell tea cups containing a deadly brew, he shook his head. "Very good, Doctor. You are second to none," he pronounced as he kissed her.

"In more ways than one, I hope, Detective," she replied with a flirtatious look as he pulled back to look at her.

"Oh, I'm sure of it," he assured her. "May I help you put things away?" he asked, gesturing around the room, in hopes of departing that much sooner. After the disappointment of last night, he was determined to enjoy a bit of romance this evening and he was eager to start the plans that involved her taking a hot bath as soon as they returned home, and the promised massage before dinner arrived.

# # #

As soon as they arrived home, William wasted no time in starting a hot bath with a liberal dose of Julia's favorite calla lily scented bath oil before stepping back into their bedroom to assist with the removal of her corset; one of his favorite tasks. Dropping it to the floor, William ran his palms up and down her bare back, pressing his thumbs into her spine the way he knew she enjoyed. Moaning in pleasure, Julia leaned back into his embrace as he finished undressing her. Thinking that she was about to be led to their bed, Julia was surprised to be led to the bathroom instead, and rather than getting in with her, he removed his jacket and cuff links, and rolled up his sleeves. Kneeling outside the tub, William proceeded to wash her with a cloth.

Taking his time dragging the cloth over her limbs, he massaged each one as he went. "So tell me, have you decided what the topic of tomorrow's lecture will be at the Medical College?"

"I have indeed. I've decided that I will be speaking on patent medicines, the threat they pose, and how to treat potential cases of dependency—or illness caused by the very medicines that are supposed to cure an ailment. I'll also be addressing how to convince our patients to avoid them. I'd like to start a campaign to get them abolished outright, but even I am concerned that may be more on my plate than I can handle," she admitted with a laugh.

"Are you feeling all right? I'm just concerned because I've never heard Julia Ogden back down from a just cause before…" he trailed off with a wag of his eyebrows and she splashed water at him in return.

"I do have to leave something for others to do," she countered as she pulled his head down for a kiss.

"Selfless as always," he laughed as he helped her out of the tub.

Later, after she had received her promised shoulder massage and they were at dinner finally enjoying the Chicken Kiev (uninterrupted this time), Julia sipped her wine and reveled in the playful nature their conversation had taken when as was usual, dinner conversation turned back to work.

"So, you're aware of how I spent my day. Where did the investigation take you?" she asked.

"Mr. Snow's editor believed he was working on an exposé about vice in Toronto, which I initially thought might be prostitution since it was one piece of evidence in his possession that held any clues as to where his interests lay. The evidence you developed about heroin in his system is now another one of those 'vice' angles I need to explore."

"You say he was robbed of a week's pay, had money in the bank and all his papers are missing. There _is_ more than one kind of vice, William. Perhaps gambling? Money and evidence of possible gambling debts, both gone?" Julia added.

William groaned at the thought of yet another avenue to explore. "I suppose that is for tomorrow. I cannot decide if the lack of notes and papers is causally related to his death or merely a distraction. I suppose I must consider a co-worker may be involved with removing his work or story notes. Today the men did a rather, um… in-depth canvass of prostitution, and except for some vague recollections and one bordello whose, er…workers definitely remembered him." He decided not to elaborate.

"And….What did you find?" she asked as she moved closer, her curiosity sparked. _I will not let him stop now!_

"Not much, I'm afraid. The information we gathered today points to Mr. Snow having a certain fascination with prostitution. He made the, um… _acquaintance_ of several women."

Julia smirked. "I see. For his _personal_ needs or his journalistic needs?"

"Unclear. But it is curious. It seems his notes, if he took any, are all missing. Not just any notes on vices—any notes at all. I haven't found them in his boarding house, or in his office. All of his work has simply vanished."

"Could his editor or a co-worked have absconded with them?" Julia asked.

"That is a good point—they would have access to his papers, and perhaps there is a motive in there—whether or not they are directly involved in the death—it may be an opportunistic act. I am also investigating if perhaps he did not actually write his articles but stole the work of others, or if his troubles in Chicago followed him to Toronto vs. his death being related to any encounters in our city." William explained.

"But tell me, what did you… _encounter_ at the houses of ill repute? Any soiled doves that I need to be wary of?" she asked with a glint in her eye.

"Julia," his voice warned, his countenance slightly scolding. He did not care to discuss with his wife how suggestive many of the ladies had been. But her excited expression informed him that he'd failed in dissuading her from such a topic.

"You _**were**_ propositioned! I knew it!" she exclaimed. "How? Where? Who? I want to know!" Her excitement was palpable.

"Julia, cataloguing them all will not matter. I said no each time, so it is a moot point. I did not nor will I ever entertain such an encounter, so there is no need…" he began before she interrupted.

"Cataloguing? As in more than once?" she asked before noticing his pained facial expression. He clearly had not enjoyed the attention he'd received-or he was uncomfortably ambivalent about whatever his feelings were. "I'm sorry, William. It just amuses me to hear that these women were in pursuit of you. Not so much that they were, because you are still a fine physical specimen, but how you reacted to it. I am relieved that you did not entertain their offers," she finished.

"A fine physical specimen? Really?" he asked, feigning incredulousness.

"Mmm, yes indeed. Did you know that the first time you met Ruby that is how she referred to you? Of course I agreed and I had to make it perfectly clear to her that I would not tolerate her interest in you… but alas, that is a different story," she explained.

Blushing again, he looked down and resumed his meal.

"Oh, William. Surely you know that you are most attractive, and that this is noticed by other women," she clarified as his gaze remained upon his plate.

"Julia," he exhaled in exasperation. He clearly did not enjoy his physical attributes being the topic of other women's conversations. _Well then, imagine how women feel almost every day?_

"Very well, William. Besides the previous, what other encounters or observations did you have, my handsome husband?" she asked winking at him. _If he has a problem with his own wife telling him how attractive she finds him, we have a serious issue._

But this time, an eye roll and a smile accompanied his blush as he shook his head. "Well, I didn't learn as much as much as I had hoped about the Mr. Snow's activities, but let's say that it was still something of an arousing adventure," he said, looking up at her through his eyelashes and thinking about the sights and sounds of the afternoon.

Julia smiled as her understanding dawned. Raising her eyebrows, she finished her wine and reached for the bottle to refill her glass when William placed his hand over hers to stop her.

"I have a surprise," he explained, pulling the bottle he'd purchased earlier out of his jacket pocket.

"For your evening aperitif, milady, may I present to you a fine bottle of Miss Lydia Pinkham's Vegetable Compound?" he asked, holding the bottle as a maître d would at a fine restaurant.

Julia tossed her head back and pealed with laughter. It was a sound William loved to hear, and better yet, he loved being the man to elicit it from her.

"Really, William? I can't believe you actually purchased a bottle of this concoction," she commented once she caught her breath.

"I believe we said something about an experiment last night, Doctor, did we not?" he asked with a sly smile.

"I believe we did, Detective. I'm not sure which data you were thinking about collecting, but I must insist we both partake and record that as well. All in the name of science, of course," she added with a smile.

Laughing, he nodded his head. "Of course," he replied, pouring the recommended dose into two glasses.

"Although if you do become pregnant William, I suppose we will have to issue a testimonial of our own, won't we?" she asked with a mischievous twinkle to her eye.

"Julia! You are outrageous!"

"And you wouldn't have it any other way, Mr. Murdoch."

# # #


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

William arrived at work the next morning with a spring and lightness to his step, and he was in a most excellent mood as he strode into the Station with a smile before disappearing into his office.

Smirking, Henry muttered to George "Well, it looks like someone finally had an enjoyable evening last night. About time, if you ask me."

"Henry!"

"Oh, don't be such a prude George. Since you broke up with Miss Bloom, you've been in a mood yourself. Perhaps you should make up with her just so you can be tolerable again if you catch my drift. I may have to put up with _**his**_ dry spells, but I don't have to put up with yours. Besides, I believe that a man has needs and when those aren't attended to, everything suffers," Henry snidely commented.

"You know Henry, I was wrong yesterday. Maybe you should try to hire a lady friend down at the docks to assist you with your own needs, as you have become quite intolerable of late yourself. Perhaps take a bit of your own advice!" George bit back. Henry may technically outrank him now, but there was no doubt that the man was becoming increasingly difficult to work with. He doubted that either the Detective or the Inspector thought enough of Henry to put much stock in his complaints if he decided to take offense at George's insolence.

Inside his office, the detective exhaled sharply, having heard enough of the conversation to replace his morning smile with a scowl, carefully hidden behind a report on assault statistics from the other precincts. Higgins, unfortunately, remained unsteady and uneven in his new rank and responsibilities. Despite having George be witness to more than he'd care to have had him witness yesterday, William knew George was again a better choice to take along on interviews than Henry would be, especially as George was a writer himself, and might have some insight to share or even know which questions to ask at the _Tattler_.

 _Besides, it would be justifiable to knock Higgins down a peg, given his recent mishandling of events with Roger Newsom,_ William reasoned. Personally, he wouldn't mind seeing the man busted down a stripe or two. He coughed as he came out of the bullpen to discuss the day's plan with his men, hoping the two constables would put their squabbling away.

"Gentlemen," he announced, gathering the constables around. "I have reviewed the department's notes- there have been no string of similar assaults and robberies such as perpetrated against Mr. Snow. I think we can declare that a dead end, especially since with Dr. Ogden's help we have opened other lines of inquiry. It seems the cause of death was actually an injection of heroin. Time of death is between three and five o'clock, but he could have been assaulted earlier. The body was not moved so the assault took place in between those two buildings during the afternoon hours."

Officers muttered in consternation. "The cause of death was an injection of heroin, sir?" George repeated quizzically, speaking for the room. "You mean he wasn't beaten to death after all?" he wondered aloud.

"No George, the beating was perhaps meant to disguise the true manner of death and throw us off the trail. With all the bruising on his body, perhaps they were hoping we would just assume it was another bruise. Possibly they meant it to look like a self-inflicted overdose, but Mr. Snow was right handed, and it was administered in his right arm, which is impossible to do to yourself," William explained. "I need you to canvass the area around the soap-works, this time to look for a cast-off syringe." He pointed to Stanton and Brightman, assigning the task. "We also need to expand into other kinds of vices since that was what Mr. Snow was supposedly investigating. Henry? Please see if we can find any link between Mr. Snow and gambling, bookmaking and loan-sharking. Money _is_ after all a motive for murder."

Henry smiled. "I'll get someone right on it. Follow the money, eh sir? Just as the inspector would have said."

"Exactly. George? Do you have any information from Chicago?"

"No sir," he answered. "But I do have a call into his editor and the publisher. They are giving me a hard time about the American First Amendment and wanting to protect the freedom of the press, but I think if I can explain what we are looking for to the men in charge I can persuade them to give us what we need. The impression I get is that the 'spot of trouble" in Chicago was directly related to that series of articles he wrote exposing medical fraud."

"Thank you. Gentlemen, we are also looking into any connection with his fellows at the _Tattler_ who might have had motive to harm Mr. Snow-or at minimum motive for taking all the notes and drafts of whatever stories he was working on. We need to re-interview everyone at the paper, run background checks and alibis, and I want us at Mr. Snow's wake and funeral." He dismissed the men with a few more instructions and reentered his office, followed close on his heels by George and Henry. Both of whom tried to get through the doorway at the same time, causing a jam. Henry glared at George, but before he could speak, the detective interrupted. "George, you are with me. Henry, I need you to run the investigation here." Henry kept glaring, but did as he was told.

George straightened his tunic. "So, are we returning to the _Tattler_ and interviewing the staff once again?" he asked.

"Yes. Someone there must know something about the stories he was writing," William said. "It just has to be tied to the motive for his death. Nothing else makes sense."

# # #

When William and George arrived at the _Tattler_ offices, the noise and rush of the place was unabated. However, as the newspaper's office planned to reduce down to a skeleton crew in the afternoon so coworkers could to pay their respects at Norris Snow's calling hours, most of the staff was already dressed in appropriate, somber black.

The two officers were given small cubicles in which to conduct interviews. Unfortunately, it seemed that most of the staff was unaware of which stories Mr. Snow had been pursuing and that the visit to the newspaper offices would once again prove futile in shedding light on what activities Mr. Snow had been engaging in prior to his death.

William was on his final interview and trying not to rush through. He saw George playing with a typewriter on a nearby desk, admiring the machine and peering into its mechanism while he passed the time, having finished his own list of interviews. Martin Bannon was a large, round man with thinning hair, who covered business news for the paper. Mr. Bannon had gone on and on in a mumbling way, about accounting practices and the stock market, making it difficult to get him to focus on the question at hand. Just as William was ready to cede defeat at the _Tattler_ and walk the few blocks to the _Gazette_ to interview Mr. Goshen (Mr. Snow's lone friend in Toronto it seemed) Mr. Bannon disclosed a significant detail.

"I really have no idea exactly what Norris was working on. This place is so busy. I for one will be holding down the fort here while everyone else is at the calling hours this afternoon. Can't stop the presses and all that! But come to think of it Detective, I forgot to mention to you earlier I recently learned that a man who was financially ruined by one of Mr. Snow's stories in Chicago relocated here to Toronto. He is a man by the name of Gustav Batting, but does business under the name of 'Dr. Batty.' One of his most popular products were 'Asthma Cigarettes,'" the man informed William.

"I'm sorry, come again?" William wasn't sure he understood correctly, and he leaned in out of curiosity at such an absurd statement.

Laughing, the man nodded. "Yes, Detective, 'Asthma Cigarettes' if you can believe that! The claim was that they did all sorts of good for the respiratory system, and Mr. Snow destroyed that claim. The man's business disappeared overnight, and of course, he was forced to leave town lest he face reprisals from his customers and his investors as well. He's now in Toronto, and far be it for me to suggest anything, but perhaps Mr. Batting didn't want a repeat of what happened in Chicago," Mr. Bannon explained.

"Thank you for that lead, Mr. Bannon. Do you happen to know where I can find Mr. Batting now?" asked William, taking another move backward in his seat. _The man's breath smelled so pungent, perhaps rotted teeth or too much garlic?_

"I'm afraid I don't. I believe I once heard Norris mention that the man loved girls, games, and drink, but other than that, I'm at a loss. But I'd be willing to bet that Norris had that information in his notes if you can ever find them," he offered.

"Thank you, Mr. Bannon," William replied, making a mark in his notebook before closing it. It was time to regroup to check with Mr. Goshen at the _Gazette_ before Mr. Snow's visitation hours— _and get someone onto locating Mr. Batting._

# # #

Seeing as Mr. Snow had no family in Toronto, his wake would be the final opportunity for everyone who knew him to pay their respects to the man.

William was there along with a few other members of Constabulary in plain clothes lest they attract undue attention. They were not here to be seen, but rather to observe. Since Norris Snow's death was not likely to be a random misadventure at the hand of a stranger, his killer was likely someone who knew the man. William suspected that the person or persons would make an appearance. Dressed in his own sober suit in a darkened corner, William stood, and watched.

Most of the visitors were Mr. Snow's colleagues at the _Tattler_ , the _Gazette_ , and several other publications, which was not all that surprising given that Mr. Snow had been new to the city and had been most secretive about the details of his private life-if he had one at all. William was becoming increasingly suspicious about the erasure of so many personal details via the disappearance of his papers. _What had the man been up to?_

Mr. Goshen appeared most affected by the loss of his friend, and it was he and Mr. Wick, who assumed positions as primary mourners, lacking anyone else to take that place. Mr. Wick was in fact paying for the funeral, which William would have thought was a kindness… _If Mr. Wick was not also making money from the publicity about doing so, and selling even more papers by railing against the constabulary for failing to finding his killer,_ he complained to himself.

Mr. Snow's landlady and fellow borders made a brief appearance along with a few chums from his pub where he ate most of his meals. William even saw several women from Mme. Le Chabanais', dressed in conservative mourning clothes, come to pay their respects in a dignified manner. The constables closely monitored a guest book which was set up to capture names of all comers for further investigation. Yet as the visitation drew to a close, William recognized one of the least obtrusive mourners; a tall, sturdy person who did not make a show, nor did this person fully approach the casket where Mr. Snow lay in eternal repose.

This person was none other than Miss Rita Love, a reporter William had made the acquaintance of in a previous case. Miss Love's green eyes were obscured behind gold-rimmed glasses, and her usually straightforward demeanor was withdrawn. Smiling at one another, she looked as though she were about to approach him when she stopped, and turned around to leave instead.

Afterwards, William stopped at the same apothecary shop on his way to the station house, and this time picked up a box of 'Dr. Batty's Asthma Cigarettes: For the Temporary Relief of Paroxysms of Asthma' and asked the clerk about how the product was typically delivered. Luckily, the clerk informed him that it was Dr. Batty himself, and gave an address the 'doctor' had left with the shop. Out of all the nostrums found in Mr. Snow's room, to the best of his knowledge, Dr. Batty's Asthma Cigarettes were not one of the many products present. _But what if the man made other products under other names?_

Outside the store, he stopped to look at the colourful paper-board box. William couldn't help but laugh at the title. He doubted Julia would have paroxysms of asthma that evening upon seeing what new snake oil he had brought to her, but he knew that she would have a fit of rage nonetheless that such a product was being offered to the public.

The station house was humming along upon his return. George was working the telephone lines trying to confirm Mr. Bannon's assertion about Gustav Batting, and whatever else he could uncover that might speak to a revenge or financial motive to kill Mr. Snow. Constable Jackson had not yet located Dr. Batty/Mr. Batting for an interview, but it had only been a few hours and now he had better contact information, thanks to the apothecary clerk. William didn't bother turning the lights on in his office, but instead opened the blinds and took advantage of the late afternoon sun to look out the window and reflect upon the case. _Wouldn't it be convenient if Mr. Batting turned out to be our man…revenge_ _ **and**_ _money the motives?_

William poured himself a glass of water and toasted the air, looking at the darkened, empty office across the bullpen. _Well, Inspector, you'll be happy to know that even in your absence we are following the money._

He settled back at his desk. Taking his watch out of his pocket to glance at the time, he hoped Julia would return soon with the results of her day's efforts with her students at the medical college. She had had the wonderful idea of combining Mr. Snow's stomach and blood analysis with the study and comparison of samples taken from many of the bottles. William hoped that their efforts would return usable information in narrowing down the list of suspects. In fact, he prayed that she would arrive to present her findings before Constable Jackson did with Mr. Batting. Looking up, he saw Henry through the glass of his office walls coming in from the street.

"Detective? I have my results." Higgins knocked on the door, looking deflated.

William waved him in. "What have you, Henry?"

"We have had nothing come in at all from our informants about witnesses to the assault or someone spending money they had no claim to near the soap works, and nothing has turned up regarding any syringe."

William nodded his head. "It was a long shot, but had to be done. And the money angle?"

Henry's tried not to grimace. "I sent men to look at betting parlours, the race tracks, Chinatown and the Ward; I called in information from the other precincts about usury and loan sharking enterprises. Mr. Snow might have enjoyed the occasional game of cards but there is no information at all that he was involved with gambling, in debt, or writing about legal or illegal gaming." He put his notes away. "I'm sorry sir." The constable looked embarrassed.

William took some pity on him. "Good work, Henry. That was very rapidly and thoroughly done, and well presented. Asking for help from the other station houses was a good idea. Never apologize for doing your job." Behind Henry, George was hanging up the telephone and approaching the detective's office, obviously overhearing the praise William just delivered. He saw George nod in agreement and nudge his erstwhile friend.

"Here, here!" George offered generously. "Detective, Henry. I have just spoken with Mr. Snow's publisher in Chicago. Mr. Bannon _was_ correct. By the time Norris Snow finished his expose of patent medicines and medical fraud, Gustav Batting's company was not just shuttered, he lost nearly six thousand dollars that he was forced to pay back investors at pennies on the dollar. It seems he over sold shares in his company and was run out of town on a rail so to speak, barely escaping some law suits that were attaching themselves to him. The publisher said Mr. Snow received many threats from Mr. Batting before the 'doctor' was forced to capitulate, including threatening libel, getting him fired, and one rather public shouting match that included a death threat against the reporter. Mr. Batting lost everything, including his wife who left him and took his child with her back to Iowa. I searched his history here in Toronto as well. After laying low about six months he resurfaced first in Niagara Falls then in our city. He has rebranded his products and is doing a brisk sale in bottled medicines and other products sold over the counter, and is branching out into ordering though the postal service."

"And now his nemesis was back in town, and perhaps sniffing around," Henry commented.

"Worse yet. It seems that Mrs. Batting has recently rejoined her husband. I think it is not just money that is at stake here," George concluded.

"I concur. So… vice is out as a motive. Money is _in_ , making Mr. Batting our prime suspect, perhaps seeking revenge, certainly fearful of more loss. Those are very strong motives." William rose to circle a few boxes on the blackboard and tapped with his chalk. "Henry, George…We need three things, very quickly. Number one: I want you to pin down where Mr. Batting was all of the day of Mr. Snow's death, hour by hour. Number two: I want to know if he has access to syringes—we already know he has access to heroin and other drugs and chemicals because of the ingredients in the products he sells, and it is likely it would not be too hard for him to get access to medical supplies. Number three: I want to know if there is any evidence of Mr. Snow and Mr. Batting crossing swords in Canada—and start back at the _Tattler_. Mr. Batting spent a great sum of money on advertisement in that paper."

"We have one of them already, sir." George announced. "He rents part of a building on Trinity near the lake—a spit and a holler from the soap-works."

The telephone's jangle punctuated the short list of tasks. The two constables exited excitedly while William picked up the handset. "Detective Murdoch." He was pleased to hear his wife on the other end.

"Julia, please tell me that there is something definitive in your results. It seems Mr. Snow had more secrets than a magician," he groaned.

Her voice was concerned. "Shall I deliver my findings in person?"

"No. I see Jackson has returned and I hope that means my interview with my new prime suspect is about to begin."

"Well, I do have some information for you as it turns out. In further analysis of his stomach contents and tissues, we most definitely found traces of arsenic of a considerable amount, but not quite enough to kill Mr. Snow. However, in analyzing the contents of one of the nostrums found in his desk at work, we did find cyanide in a bottle of 'Wilson's Syrup of Tar, Wild Cherry, and Horehound'. What's interesting about this product is that it is quite boastful that it does not contain morphine or opiates, and it is said to cure all coughs, colds, croup, and pulmonary afflictions. Given its popularity and that it's been sold since the mid 80's, I wouldn't think that it would contain arsenic," Julia explained.

"Why risk killing off your most loyal customers? That seems counterproductive." William opined.

"Precisely," Julia agreed. "We thought it strange ourselves. So, we went out and bought three additional bottles of the syrup and we didn't find arsenic in any of them. So, it stands to reason that Mr. Snow was deliberately being poisoned by someone adding arsenic to his cough syrup."

"So now the question is just who was adulterating Mr. Snow's syrup and how were they doing it. The syrup was found in his room. How did it get there? Is it possible a person, frustrated with the slow pace of death, wanted to speed up the process…?" He paused to hear himself talk his ideas out loud. "Well, it is illogical to assume more than one person had it in for the man, is it not?" William was already running the possibilities through his mind. He scrunched up his face. "I don't suppose there's any chance that any of your tests that can help me with that is there?" he asked.

"I'm afraid that's your job, and not mine. I just analyze the evidence. It's your responsibility to interpret it. Seeing as you have a potential suspect, I guess I shouldn't expect you home for dinner?" Julia asked.

"I'm afraid not. However, I hope to be home before bedtime," he assured her before putting the handset on its cradle. He took in a huge breath and sent a prayer that George and Henry come up with enough evidence to put Mr. Batting on the ropes. He needed to know how Mr. Batting and Mr. Snow overlapped sufficiently to give Batting the opportunity to attempt to poison his nemesis and then beat him and inject him with heroin-propinquity alone was suggestive but not conclusive. William was afraid it was going to be a tall order.

Checking his appearance in the reflection of the glass, William straightened his tie and re-buttoned his vest, making sure he was presentable. Before walking out to the bullpen where Constable Jackson was awaiting him, he tucked a folded newspaper into a manila folder and grasped it under his arm.

"Mr. Batting is in the interview room, sir. I did not tell him why he was brought in, but that you would explain it to him," Jackson stated before William could even ask.

"Excellent, Constable. Thank you for bringing him in," said William as he left for an interview in which he hoped to get a quick confession. Gustav Batting looked nothing like Dr. Batty from the package of Asthma Cigarettes. Instead of having dark eyes, aquiline nose and a bushy mustache like the figure from the package's picture, Mr. Batting was a thin man, with dark blonde hair, gray eyes and his nose was far less prominent and his mustache quite thin. William thought he would have better off without one as he took in the appearance of his main suspect. A quick glance at the man's hands showed no evidence of a recent altercation, which meant that the man couldn't have been personally responsible for the beating, but he still could have hired someone else for the job. _On the other hand,_ William remembered, _Julia thought Snow was slammed against the building and kicked—maybe his killer's hands would not be a giveaway, anyway_.

"Good Evening, Mr. Batting. Thank you for agreeing to come down here to speak with me. I'm Detective William Murdoch," William introduced himself.

"Vhy am I heere? I am an honest businessman _und_ I have broken no laws heere in your country," Mr. Batting immediately attacked, in what William instantly recognized as an atrociously fake German accent.

William opened his folder and quietly laid out some of the pages. "Yes…We are conducting an investigation and believe you may have valuable information. I understand you produce what are known as patent medicines."

"Ja. That is true."

"You distribute them in apothecary shops, small stores, door to door and I understand though the mail?"

" _Ja. Was ist los?"_

"And some doctors and dentists also carry your products?" William asked and got a satisfied nod this time and a smile. "The constabulary is interested to know where you obtain and store your ingredients."

"I import some from mein country and some I buy locally. I mix them at mien workshop, Herr Detective, vhere mien elixirs are mixed und bottled, on Trinity."

 _So far, so good_ , thought William. All facts that he already knew and one he as fishing for: access to a medical provider who might have syringes. "I see. And do you use or store any of these particular ingredients?" William slid a single sheet over, containing Julia's best guess of all the chemicals which were in the nostrum Mr. Snow apparently consumed, plus heroin, cocaine, boric acid, alcohol, arsenic, and strychnine—some thirty in all.

" _Ja…_ I used thees in my preparations, _zoh, ja_ , I have them. Theere is nothing amiss. I am an honest provider of helpful remedies. Nothing more!" Mr. Batting squirmed under the detective's inquiry and backed away from the table with a firm shove.

"Well, Mr. Batting, given that your business deals in products of the snake-oil variety, we'll just have to differ on what constitutes honesty," William replied calmly, his sarcasm barely suppressed. Not particularly in the mood for entertaining the man's act, William immediately decided to end the charade. If Gustav Batting's accent was fake, then he really wasn't from Germany. If he really wasn't from Germany, William doubted that the man's name was truly Gustav Batting. _"Woher kommen sie aus Deutschland?"_ William asked. His knowledge of German was not nearly as proficient as French was, but he'd gained a passable knowledge from the various scientific journals dealing with Chemistry and engineering that came from the country.

"I'm sorry, I do not understand…" Mr. Batting began, his false accent faltering even more.

" _Ich spreche nur ein kleines bisschen Deutsch. Sprechen sie Deutsch? Ich spreche Englisch. Sprechen sie Englisch?"_ William pressed his question.

" _Ja."_ the man replied.

" _Ich nicht verstehen sie. Sprechen sie Englisch, oder sprechen sie Deutsch?"_

" _Nein?"_

 _Herr Batting is getting nervous now, shifting in his seat_ , William observed. "Which is it, Mr. Batting? Please help me, which is it that you do not speak, English or German?" William finally snapped. "How about we admit that we don't speak German, that you've probably never been to Germany, and that Gustav Batting is not your real name. Then perhaps you can tell me your real name and where you're actually from," William stated.

Exhaling and slumping into his seat, Mr. Batting rubbed his face with his hands. "Fine, Mr. Murdoch," he replied in a flat "A" accent. "I do not speak nearly as much German as you apparently, and I am from Chicago. However, my name truly is Gustav Batting. I was named for my grandfather, Gustavus Batting who immigrated to the United States from Mainz, Germany fifty years ago," the man defeatedly admitted.

"Excellent, now that we're telling the truth, how about you tell me where you were Wednesday afternoon from twelve o'clock on, and just how long have you known that Norris Snow, your bitter foe and the man who ruined you in Chicago, was also here in Toronto?" William queried.

"Wednesday?" the man asked, cocking his head quizzically. "Why Wednesday?"

"It was the day that Mr. Snow's body was found near the soap-works. Don't tell me that you were unaware that he was dead," William pressed. "In fact, don't even tell me that you didn't know that he was in Toronto, _or_ that he was dead." William opened his folder again and drew out the edition of _The Tattler_ , which spelled out lurid details of the death and murder investigation.

Batting glanced at the headlines and cleared his throat. "I was at my business, overseeing the production of my fine medications that have benefitted innumerable people over the years. Yes, as an advertiser in the _Tattler_ I knew Snow was there. I saw his name on the byline of many of the articles, but I did not kill him if that's what you were implying. I came here from Chicago, and he must have followed me. Snow ruined my business at his last newspaper, and I was afraid that it was only a matter of time before he did so again. That editor, Mr. Wick, assured me he was not going to publish anything negative about me—I had a guarantee!"

"I think you were worried about the publicity and the money—also that you might lose your family again. I cannot imagine how horrid it would be to reconcile with your wife and reunite your family only to lose them again—that would be a powerful motive to rid yourself of the man who was threatening you."

"Detective! But I did not kill him!" 

"I think you did. Convince me otherwise." William shot back.

"If you want the truth, I'm not sorry he's dead, the man was vicious and unjustly attacked me, but I was nowhere near him when he died." he repeated. "Call my wife! Check with my secretary, they can vouch for me," the man pleaded. "Here! Here are their numbers!"

"Very well. Constable?" William called out to Jackson who was waiting just outside.

"Yes, sir?" the man asked. "Please contact Mr. Batting's home and place of business and verify with both his secretary and Mrs. Batting that Mr. Batting was in fact at his office Wednesday afternoon," William handed the names and numbers over on a piece of paper.

"Yes, sir," the constable said, and was off at a trot.

"Why do you believe that you were unjustly attacked? If your products are truly as miraculous as you must claim…" William continued with his previous line of investigation before he was interrupted.

"They've saved countless lives. My concoctions are made of the finest ingredients from Germany, which is why I pretend that's where I'm from. Everyone knows that German knowledge of chemistry is second to none! In fact, Detective, might I suggest some of my…"

It was William's turn to interrupt. "No, thank you, Mr. Batting. My wife is a physician and I follow her advice in regards to my health, which is superb, I assure you. If your products are above reproach, then why flee Chicago in the dark of night, leaving your investors in the lurch? Surely if your products are as high a quality as you believe, wouldn't they have stood up to the criticism?"

"There is nothing wrong with my products! I assure you that they have helped many. I am not sorry Mr. Snow is dead, but I did not kill him, Detective!" the man pleaded.

"Mr. Batting, you produce a product known as "Asthma Cigarettes", and you even recommend their use for children. Instead of seeking appropriate medical care, your lies convince people that your tobacco will ease the coughing associated with respiratory problems when it must in fact, exacerbate it," William snapped. "I happen to disagree with you that your products have helped countless people. The only person they have helped is you and your bank account, Mr. Batting."

"That's not true! Snow was merely an annoyance. I plan to revise the formulas…I can still make a profit, regardless of what Snow does. That's…" Mr. Batting began before William cut him off again.

"Mr. Batting, you started this interview off by lying to me. Is there any reason I should believe you now?" William pointedly asked as there was a knock at the door. "Yes, Constable?"

"Sir, I have been unable to contact Mrs. Batting. She is not at home. However, Mr. Batting's secretary says that he was out of the office most of the afternoon at a meeting. She did not know where exactly," Jackson reported.

"Thank you again, Constable." William replied, nodding his head as the Constable shut the door again and resumed his post outside the door.

"Well, Mr. Batting. It seems that you've been lying to me again. I am arresting you for obstruction of justice—and on suspicion of murder. Perhaps a night in our cells will convince you to tell the truth in the morning," said William.

"Constable? Please escort this man down to the lock up. Our interview is over for now," William stated, standing up and leaving the room, while his suspect started sputtering something about a lawyer.

William returned to his office and quickly completed the necessary paperwork and procedures for detaining a prisoner. Groaning, he grabbed the handset on his phone and asked to be connected to the hotel. He was going to inform Julia that he would be home much later than expected tonight. Somewhere from the back of his mind he could hear the Inspector's voice " _Murdoch, no one on their death bed ever wished that they had worked more."_ He supposed that was true, but neither George nor Jackson had wives or families at home so no one was waiting for them his mind rationalized. _But you do_ , his conscience reminded him.

Nevertheless William ignored it as he stepped into the bullpen to determine a course of action with the two men.

# # #


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

With not a minor bit of persuading, Mr. Batting's secretary remained to work long enough to allow them into the office as well as answer a few questions.

"No, detective," Miss Hannigan ground out in frustration. "I do not know where Mr. Batting was Wednesday afternoon, but if I had to guess, McGuinness' Pub would be an excellent place to start as he often went there for the cards and drink. I processed enough of the invoices to know that he was a regular there, and given that Mrs. Batting was opposed to such things, I don't think he'd be indulging at home." After giving William the man's calendar and confirming that he was out Wednesday afternoon, she was excused to finish packing up her desk for the evening and trundle off with stiff shoulders and an agitated gait. William suspected that she would be looking for new employment if she hadn't been already, as she hardly seemed the satisfied employee. Not that he blamed her.

As William looked through Batting's papers, he found evidence that the man was plenty fond of vice, in the form of old betting slips and receipts for whiskey, but found nothing tying him the death of Mr. Snow.

"Sir. We just conducted a cursory glance around the workshop. There's no syringe, no medical equipment, but we did find all the chemical and ingredients on your list and plenty of heroin. However, well…"

Turning around to face George, William raised his brows. "However what, George?"

"Sir, the man produced quite a variety of medical remedies-a 'snake oil' salesman, just as you've said. Wouldn't it make sense for him to have heroin on hand, as it would be an ingredient in his medicines?" he offered.

"Yes, George. It would. We're going to need more evidence than that in this instance," he sighed as he stood up. "You and Jackson have done enough, and you have both stayed past the end of your shift. As soon as the other Constables get here, make sure that they know to post that this business is closed by the Constabulary until further notice and that two of them are to remain here until tomorrow morning when a more thorough search can be done in daylight. I'll take the carriage and that box of items back to the station house so you don't have to, before I head home. You can exchange transportation with the new men who relieve you."

"Will you be interviewing Mrs. Batting tonight? Does she know her husband is currently in jail?" Jackson asked as he stood behind George.

"Oh, she's aware—and humiliated to be sure. However, she's hosting a dinner party and is not available for questioning right now. She'll visit her husband in the morning, and I can speak with her then," William scoffed.

"Not exactly a loving marriage, is it?" George asked.

"No, George, it certainly doesn't sound like it. And on that note, I should be returning to Dr. Ogden, and you gentlemen are free to go once the others get here. I'll see that you're remunerated in your next pay packet, albeit modestly" William offered with a laugh.

"So you're saying that we won't have enough for a steak dinner at the finest restaurant in the city?" George deadpanned.

"Your dreams are far too ambitious, George. Goodnight gentlemen," William bid with a tip of his hat.

He rode back to the station house in contemplation, his busy mind going in a dozen directions, most of which ended in another road-block. _Too much information and not enough evidence._ He was dropped off by the front door, pushed it open and greeted Barnard, the new desk Sargent. "Please see to this box of items in the Norris Snow investigation. You can record each piece of evidence with the new system I have put in place, then lock it all up."

The hour was late and there was no more to be done. With a shrug, he set a few notes on his desk for the morning and made his farewells to Sgt. Barnard, leaving the quiet station house behind for the bustle of Wilton Street on a Friday night. He'd not gone ten feet before a face he recognized was illuminated by a nearby streetlamp, approaching him out of the shadows. The figure's mouth was open slightly and her arm reached out to touch his sleeve, then with a hiss of breath, she was gone, darting though the crowded street. It happed so fast William took a moment to process, then without really thinking about it he took off after her, nearly colliding with an elegant barouche and getting a tongue lashing from its occupants.

William didn't bother to apologize, keeping an eye on his target who fled down an alleyway under a curved archway between two buildings. He cleared the back wheels of the coach and threaded his way through the traffic. He did not get a _"Stop!"_ out of his mouth before she slipped into blackness and away. He followed as best he could, skidding to a stop once he entered the darkened alley. Left and right were more people going about their business. _Ah…to the left!_ The clatter of her shoes gave her location away even if he could not see her, so he took off, hoping the uneven cobblestones were more an impediment to her in her shoes than to him— _alas,_ they were not. She led him on a frustrating chase when he thought he was gaining on her, the sound of her foot falls ended as abruptly as the next alley did in a brick wall across the lane. He grunted in anger. _Just like this case!_ He moaned to himself.

Looking left and right, he tried the doors on either side until he found one unlocked, admitting himself to the kitchen of a small café. This time he apologized as he asked if a woman just ran through, and was rewarded with a set of angry glares and fingers pointing to the dining area.

William walked rapidly past the seated guests and out the front of the establishment—into a huge crowd that waited to be admitted to the vaudeville house. The chase had taken him in zigzag fashion all the way to the commercial end of Jarvis. William's heartrate was up and he was warm from his exertion. He decided to catch his breath and wait—just as he used to do when hunting rabbits; he knew it was sometimes best for the quarry to think the hunter had gotten bored or moved off to track something else, so he took up a position where he could watch the crowd. The patrons of the early show were pouring out of the theater, allowing new paying customers to be admitted. Eventually, William noticed one patron slip sideways from the admission line to the exit line and try to blend in. In the better light, William now had no doubts: _Mademoiselle Chastity._

He moved slowly, using the crowd for cover to angle over to catch her from behind and from the side, taking her completely by surprise, pushing a startled shriek out of her when he firmly grabbed her elbow. "Mademoiselle. Why run away when you so clearly want to speak with me?" he said in a low, insistent tone.

"You scared me!" she complained. William saw she was in relatively modest street clothes, not outfitted for an evening of public socializing, and certainly not dressed for her usual occupation. Her eyes remained huge with anxiety.

"You came all this way to talk with me. And during your most lucrative business hours. So it must be important."

She wiggled in his grasp for a second then relaxed, placing her gloved hand along his cheek and pressing her body against his. "Perhaps I wanted to invite you to see me _privately_ , detective. What _Madame_ does not know about…"

"She gets no cut of the profit from." William completed for her. "No. I think you wanted to tell me something and then changed your mind. Tell me now or I will bring you in for questioning. That would not be welcome to _Madame_ nor your clientele, _n'est-ce pas?"_ When she hesitated, he bargained. "The sooner you tell me the sooner you will be back in business."

She stood stock still, yet her facial expression ran the gamut, finally settling on worry. "Yes. I was coming to see you. But you have to promise I will not get into trouble—with the police or with the Madame Le Chabanais." 

"I cannot promise that until I know what it is you are going to say." He did not let go of her arm, but drew them aside and to a semi-private doorway and waited again, more certain than ever this was going to be important.

Her shoulders fell. "I did not tell you everything the other day when you questioned me."

"And you want to tell me now? In a way that the Madame does not know about it?" He guessed

She nodded. "Norris, that is Mr. Snow, was with me on the night before he died…" she stopped again, biting her lip. "You need to know the he was not a customer, not in the way you think. Some men really just come back again and again to socialize, like a fancy club as it were. He just wanted to talk."

William held himself back from scoffing: he heard that as an excuse from men many times before, but places like that oozed sexuality and arousal, and William had no trouble understanding how one could become addicted. "About what, may I ask?"

"He wanted to know what it was like to have the life I lead—whether I was happy, or wanted to leave, how I felt about being a…well…" William could not see well in the dark but he thought, of all extraordinary things, she might be blushing.

"I see." In truth he did—so it _was_ prostitution Snow was investigating. "Was he wanting to know about your customers?"

"No—all he had to do is meet other men in the salon. Not that the men necessarily give the names on their birth certificates…." She coughed. "No. In fact he has helped several girls get off the streets, even out of the life if they wanted to."

"And yourself?" he inquired, not sure why he was asking.

She smiled. "No, detective. I am not unhappy and have no plans to leave any time soon." She paused and composed herself again. "What I really wanted to tell you was this: I heard two men arguing outside my window the night before he died. It was so loud, one man banging the other against the wall of the house... it, er…caused my gentleman to lose… I mean…"

"I appreciate that it was disruptive to your customer. Please go on. What did you overhear?"

"The last thing I heard was one man threatened another. _'Pay the price with me, or pay the price with her.'_ Madame Le Chabanais shouted outside to get them to move on. I can't be absolutely sure, but I'm fairly sure that of the men was Norris Snow!"

# # #

As he wasn't too far from the hotel, William walked home, hoping to use the time to clear his head. Mademioselle. Chastity's words ran over and over in his head. Mr. Batting was hardly a sympathetic character, and he most assuredly had motive for wanting Mr. Snow dead. _Now I have a witness to Norris Snow arguing with a male the night before he was killed. Tomorrow I will go back with Mr. Batting's picture to see if Mme. Le Chabanais' girls recognize him._ Yet, something wasn't quite adding up for William. Batting was a slight man, hardly big enough to have inflicted much damage on anyone, plus he didn't have any wounds or scrapes on his person as far as William could tell. Perhaps he'd have Julia examine him tomorrow just to be sure.

But what if Batting wasn't responsible for Mr. Snow's death? _What if it was someone else who was arguing with him the night before? The witness says she heard: 'Pay the price with me, or pay the price with her.'_ _Who was threatening whom?_ The fact remained that Norris Snow was poking his nose into "vice," which meant that he could have found trouble in any number of places. Was he wrong to put all his apples in Batting's basket? _Do I have another basket in which to put them?_ _And who was the "she" the argument referenced?_ _Mrs. Batting? Madame Le Chabanais? Some other woman?_

Giving into fatigue, he trudged slowly up the stairs and unlocked the door, feeling famished for his supper. At half past nine, William entered their suite hoping for some leftover bread and cheese to eat and was surprised to find it shrouded in darkness. _Has Julia gone to bed already?_ Suddenly, he heard the sound of a match being struck and saw a candle suddenly glow in the darkness. There before him was Julia in her pink silk brocade dressing gown. But rather than wear the garment to conceal her state of undress, the garment was situated just so to highlight the fact that she was not wearing anything beneath it.

"Julia," he greeted. Apparently she was up to something, but was unsure what that was when he felt his jacket being dragged down his shoulders and her voice low and husky in his ear, "Detective, wherever have you been this evening?" she asked.

He'd already told her that he would be speaking with a suspect in the Snow case, but he hadn't told her that he would be conducting a search or chasing down a prostitute.

"From the smell of expensive French perfume, I'm going to guess that you've been spending time with lovely young prostitutes keen to enjoy your talents in bed. Perhaps it is my job to remind you that there are delights that await you here at home, and that it is not necessary for you to satisfy your appetites at a house of ill repute when your wife is more than willing and excited even to take care of those needs here."

William's fatigue was suddenly evaporating and his hunger for sustenance was forgotten. "Oh? Is that so."

"Yes, William," she murmured taking his hands and placing them upon her body, encouraging him to run his hands along the silk robe as well as under to feel her bare flesh. "Imagine you are a client in a brothel and you have just selected me as your companion for the evening. I've taken you upstairs to my boudoir and we've just closed the door. No need to be polite or heed the rules of propriety as it is just you and I, your courtesan for the night. What do you have in mind for the evening? What will I be doing for you?" she asked as she removed his collar studs and cufflinks, dropping them onto the side table to her right.

William grinned, warming up to the game. He knew Julia loved her experiences and to test the boundaries of his tolerance…in more ways than one. She was much freer with her body, and more daring too, as evidence by her current state of behaviour. "First of all, I'm asking that you disrobe, and stand before me"

"You're asking? William you've just purchased me for the evening. No need to remain a gentleman," she reminded him.

"A true gentleman never forgets who he is," he reminded her as he removed his tie.

"No? So you're telling me you would do nothing other than stare at me?" she asked incredulously as she slipped the robe off and allowed it to pool at her feet onto the floor.

"I didn't say that," he murmured. "I'd like a glass of ice water please," he asked, smiling as observed the sway of her backside as she walked across the room to make it for him. It reminded him of all the moments he'd stolen over the years as he'd surreptitiously gazed at it and used his imagination. He'd never acted upon this fantasy for fear that she might be offended by it, but if she was offering herself as a courtesan to him… _This may be the chance I've been waiting for_ , he mused.

Taking the glass from her, he made it a point to drink it while watching her stand before him.

"William, you're staring again," she reminded him.

"I thought as your patron, it was my privilege to do as I liked?" he asked as he began to walk around her. "Remain still, Julia, I wish to admire your form as an artist's patron might view a sculpture, for you are both works of art," he replied as he took his time gazing upon her. "You are so very beautiful…" He took her lips with his…

####

Later as he lay in bed, Julia's head upon his chest while his hand played in her curls, he wondered what had brought on that bit of role play. If Julia was merely playing a role, that was one thing. However, if her actions belied an insecurity about his job's requirement to spend so much time in houses of ill repute and with prostitutes, that was a problem. _I am a man after all, so while the sights, smells, and sounds are all quite arousing to me, that does not follow I have any interest in utilizing the services of such an establishment. Surely she knows this! Right?_

"Julia? I'm not going to lie, I thoroughly enjoyed myself with you, and I love that we trust one another to let our guards down enough to indulge in our fantasies. But was this little game just now truly a game, or does it belie an anxiety on your part?"

"No William, not _anxiety_ , exactly. I suppose I was a bit inspired, that is all; although I also never want you to think I am taking you for granted, or for you to get bored…" she teased. Julia in fact enjoyed it whenever she could bring her husband a little outside of his expectations.

"Good. You did seem to enjoy my discomfort about being propositioned. You have no reason from me to feel jealous or offended by where my job takes me…."

She was loathe to admit to any insecurity regarding William and had no belief he would actually engage a prostitute—that was not the sort of upright man he was. Her more rational mind could also easily argue for the benefits of sexual outlets for men, even if it was in the context of an economic exchange. Knowing that he had sensed something else, she explained her true reason for this evening's intimate exchange.

"To be perfectly honest, William, I suppose that I've always fantasized about what it must be like to be such a woman. To be one of the celebrated courtesans of Europe who could choose her lovers and who could earn a living through seeking pleasure with whomever she pleased," she offered. "Or like Alice Keppel, King Edward's mistress, whom even Alexandra tolerates. The king's friends secure Mrs. Keppel financially as well. I guess I've always admired the freedom of such women, to not care what society thinks of them, to enjoy life on their terms, embrace their enjoyment of the sexual act."

Every day William encountered individuals whose lives were destroyed by vice, infidelity and their accompanying diseases. He disliked even clean upscale brothels on principle, even if Ettie ran one, because the girls were often victimized, far too many married men utilize them, and he firmly believed men should be faithful to their wives. "Julia. Certainly you aren't so naïve that all women engaged in prostitution are set up the way you describe. The situation of which you speak has been the domain of the rarefied few throughout history. It is the exception, and not the rule… Besides, didn't you always want to be a physician? You've overcome a lot to achieve this…"

"Oh, William, I said that I'd _fantasized._ I have no interest in making this fantasy ever come true and I'm perfectly aware that it's not realistic, and I'm perfectly happy where I am, being intimate solely with the man I love more than life itself. I'm not seeking to change what we have or what we do. But not everyone enjoys a marriage like ours. Plenty of my childhood friends were married to men they hardly knew or didn't love, and they went along with it because their parents said it's what they were supposed to do. We weren't raised to enjoy physical relations marital or otherwise; all the instruction we received was to lie there and think of queen and country as we did our marital duty. For many of these women, it is indeed a reprieve when your husband takes his needs to a brothel, or a mistress, instead of seeking you for that fulfillment. I can't quite explain the relief they expressed when they no longer had to fear whether or not he would enter your bedroom and demand relations with them. And of course, as their wife, it was your duty to submit, your own desires or gratification be damned," she burst out in anger that surprised even her.

William had caught her mixed pronouns and wondered if she was speaking of her time with Darcy as well as the experiences of her friends, but decided that perhaps it was best to let it go. It certainly seemed to be a sensitive topic for her, more so than he would have thought possible. He wasn't sure how to best approach a time in their lives when neither of them was particularly happy.

"You know, when I was younger and thinking of the woman who would one day become my wife, I must say, I never once imagined a woman who would encourage my fantasies or who would ask me to help her live out some of her own. I hoped and prayed that I would one day find a woman who would be waiting for me to come home with a hot dinner on the stove. Not one who waited for me in the nude and begged me to have my way with her," he teased, attempting to alleviate the tense mood.

Chuckling, she lightly bit his ear lobe, gently tugging at it with her teeth. Looking up at him smiling, she then pulled his hair. "Are you insinuating that you didn't get what you wanted, William Murdoch?"

"Of course I was much, _much_ younger and quite naive then." He kissed her. "But I suppose I am saying just that…and I couldn't be happier about it," he laughed, pulling her into another long kiss.

With the dangerous topic of Julia's marriage to Darcy avoided, William decided to explain the provenance of the French perfume Julia had detected earlier.

"So, what did you think of my new aftershave? I thought it smelled quite lovely," he teased, smirking at her.

Lightly hitting his chest, she giggled. "William Murdoch, that was no aftershave! I know expensive French perfume when I smell it, so that means that you must have been in close contact with a woman who was wearing a great deal of it, and given you have been associating with prostitutes lately…" she trailed off.

"Yes, I suppose that you could say that I had rather close contact with such a woman earlier this evening, but it was not as intimate an exchange as you might fear," kissing the top of her head as explained his earlier encounter with _Mademoiselle_ Chastity. He left out the part about where she had propositioned him, not wanting to be teased about it by Julia once more.

Wrapping her leg around him possessively, she repositioned herself to have greater contact with him, kissing his chest.

 _Perhaps there is some insecurity there…something to be mindful of for the future,_ he thought as he pulled her in closer and held her just a bit tighter.

Thus they lay together for a few moments more when Julia asked how that pertained to his current suspect, Mr. Batting.

"I'm not sure, Julia. We did a cursory exploration of his workshop this evening, and found all matter of ingredients, including a large amount of heroin, samples of which we brought back to the station. But given how Mr. Batting makes his money selling concoctions, George has stated that it is not sufficient enough evidence," William stated.

"Yes, it would make sense for the heroin to be there. If you like, I'll go in tomorrow morning with you and compare his ingredients with my laboratory equipment. But given that he has a professional reason for all that heroin, George is right, you're going to need more evidence. Was there evidence of a recent physical altercation? Busted knuckles, scrapes, that sort of thing?" she asked.

"Not that I saw, but I was hoping that maybe you could examine him as well and tell me definitively? Of course, I must also consider the fact that he hired someone to do the beating for him, perhaps some ne'er do wells from down at McGuinness' Pub, where he purportedly spends a great deal of time gaming and drinking," William theorized.

"That could very well be the case, and then again, Mr. Batting, as attractive a suspect as he is, may not be your man. Don't forget that Mr. Snow was slowly being poisoned as well, and that would likely mean a suspect that would have regular and intimate access with the man. Don't forget that poison is usually a woman's weapon, its subtlety most feminine. If not _Mademoiselle_ Chastity, who you said was genuinely upset about Mr. Snow's death, and her coming forward to you really did her no favors if she were the guilty party, who else may have wanted Mr. Snow dead? Perhaps _Madame_ Le Chabanais? Mr. Snow was in essence luring her girls away, and costing her time and money to procure new ones. She could have been poisoning him in her parlor. Perhaps if Mr. Batting doesn't work out, might I suggest looking at her as a possible suspect?" Julia offered her insight. "Or some other mystery woman?"

Groaning, William rubbed his face. Was he pursuing the wrong suspect simply because Mr. Batting proved the most convenient? This case was quickly proving to be a web of deceit.

"Perhaps I could go undercover at Mme. Chabanais establishment and procure some information for you?" Julia cheekily asked, seeking to cut the tension herself.

Exhaling, William flipped her over and rolled on top of her, taking her head in his hands. "Absolutely not, Julia. Besides, if I'm not mistaken, weren't courtesans often kept by a benefactor, and in return she would serve only him and no other?" William asked as he slid a hand down to the apex of her thighs.

Gasping and going rigid before submitting to him and spreading her legs to encourage him, she moaned her assent, "Yes."

"Indeed, you are my courtesan, Julia: my beautiful, witty, intelligent, and wonderful lover. A wise man does not share his treasures," he told her before running his hand up and down her body possessively. "The night is not over, milady. Do you know what else I desire this evening?" he asked as he whispered his request into her ear.

# # #


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Saturday mornings were typically a time for luxuriating in bed with Julia, and his one day of the week to take his time starting his day, as Sundays he had to rise as early as any weekday to attend Mass. But despite this not being a typical Saturday, his mood was pleasant, as he woke up with the woman he loved, sexually satisfied, something that always added a boost to his confidence and best yet, he was still going to spend the day with his wife, who was his true partner in every sense of the word. Looking over to his right he found said woman already awake and staring at him with a smile on her face.

"Good morning, Mr. Murdoch. Did you sleep well?" she asked as she smoothed the lines on his brow.

"With you by my side, how could I not?" he asked, taking her hand to kiss it. "Shall we get our day started?"

As they dressed and ate a quick breakfast of tea and scones, William outlined the plans for the day. If he didn't get the evidence he needed by lunchtime, he was going to have to let Mr. Batting go. Thus, since time was of the essence, it was decided that William would send constables to search Mr. Batting's workshop while he interviewed Mrs. Batting, and Julia would examine Mr. Batting for any recent injuries as well as test the ingredients found in Mr. Batting's workshop the previous evening. She was planning on calling in Miss James as well as some other students to assist her with this last task. William got to thinking about Julia's observation about poison, women, and access to Mr. Snow to deliver the poison. It gave him another idea for who the men outside Mme. Le Chabanais' might have been arguing about, so he arranged that conversation too.

Thus, they immediately hit the ground running on what was supposed to have been a leisurely day for the both of them.

Julia's examination of Batting turned up no visible injuries of any recent physical altercations and thus she immediately set to work to test the samples brought back from Batting's lab, including the most ridiculous and appalling item- the "Asthma Cigarette."

Meanwhile, William met with Mrs. Batting, and almost immediately, William most uncharitably understood why the man sought refuge in both game and drink. Some may have described her as physically attractive, with thick, glossy black hair, a patrician nose, and grey eyes, but the woman simply left William cold, as there was no warmth or spark to her personality, and instead of expressing concern about her husband, she instead spoke exasperatedly of him.

"What's the idiot done now, Detective?" were her first words to him upon being seated in his office.

"Well, I don't know that he's done anything, but he is a person of interest in a murder investigation. I trust your party went well last night?" William asked, unable to resist a dig at her refusal to come in the night previous.

"Why yes, Detective. I've only been in town for two weeks, but of course I've already made such wonderful friends. To be perfectly honest, it went even better than I expected without that oaf there to mess things up," Mrs. Batting stated coldly. "I should never have given the man a second chance."

"Oh?" William asked. He also wondered how wonderful these friends truly could have been if Mrs. Batting were the measurement by which they could be judged.

"Yes, when we were courting, he assured me that he was a successful businessman, head of a growing business empire, and showered me with expensive gifts until I agreed to marry him," the woman explained. "But after the wonderfully lavish honeymoon, he bought me the large house I wanted, but it wasn't in the correct neighborhood, after he'd promised that I would have nothing but the best. Of course, I wanted out then, but by that time, I was already pregnant, damn fool that I was. Of course, the bastard planned it that way, I'm sure of it," the woman complained.

Not particularly moved by her hardships, William couldn't bring himself to feel much sympathy for the woman. "I see," he responded. "Have you any more children? Are they here in Toronto?"

"Oh, God no. Poor thing looks entirely too much like her father, unfortunately. She's back in Iowa with my mother," the woman explained. "Gustav assured me that things would be different here, that he wasn't going to trade in his snake oil products. He told me that he was importing heroin from Germany and merely reselling it to local producers. He assured me that he was not making anything for public consumption himself. He promised me that it would be different here," the woman whined.

"And you didn't suspect anything different?" William asked incredulously.

"Why should I? It's his job to provide for me. It's not seemly for a lady to concern herself with business affairs," the woman haughtily replied.

"Mrs. Batting, could you tell me where you were Wednesday afternoon?"

"Wednesday afternoon…oh yes, I was at the tennis club playing doubles with Mrs. Margaret Attenbury, Mrs. Belinda Knowles, and Miss Evelyn Mercer. It was a most splendid afternoon even if some wretched woman came by asking for money to feed her baby. Shouldn't have had the poor creature if you can't afford to feed it, if you ask me. Thankfully, the club dispatched someone to remove her quickly, although I dare say I may have to speak with them as to how she was even able to enter the grounds in the first place," the woman replied.

His previous good mood was eroded by the woman's dreadful demeanor and he wondered just what Mr. Batting or any other man would see in this woman. "I see. Thank you, Mrs. Batting. That will be all for now. Perhaps I can have the Constable escort you down to the cells so that you may see your husband," he proposed.

"Oh, absolutely not. It must be ghastly down there," the woman replied, tugging her gloves on daintily.

"Mrs. Batting, our interview is concluded, but I'd like to ask you to stay for a while anyway. If not visiting your husband, perhaps in the interview room," William said.

"Oh, but what if anyone should see me?" the woman asked. "This won't do my reputation any favors," she worried.

"The interview room is most secluded, Mrs. Batting. I would think no one should see you there," William assured her.

"Oh, very well. If I must…" she muttered.

Sensing that she would be just the type of woman easily turned by a bit of flattery, William called Higgins into his office.

"Sir?" the constable asked.

"I need you to escort Mrs. Batting into the interview room and perhaps bring her some tea?" William directed.

Seeing the gleam in his eye as he appraised the attractive woman, Higgins eagerly accepted his task.

"Yes, sir. Ma'am? May I escort you?" he asked, offering his arm.

Smiling and taking his arm, the woman beamed. "Thank you most kindly, Constable…Higgins, is it? I am pleased to know that such gentlemen like you are still around…" she trailed off as the door closed behind them.

William was sure that if he'd rolled his eyes any harder, they might have actually stuck in the back of his head. He also congratulated himself for having the foresight and intelligence for not marrying a woman like that. _Doubtful that she would have ever been interested in you anyway, a working class copper_ he snorted to himself. _Thank God, for that!_

For the time being, William was convinced that the woman was most likely not responsible for poisoning Mr. Snow as he doubted that Mr. Batting was worth that much to her. If he embarrassed her again, the woman would most likely just simply leave him once more. Still, it was worth finding out if Mrs. Batting was the "she" referred to in the mysterious conversation with Mr. Snow outside Mademoiselle. Chastity's room.

Picking up the phone, he decided to call the morgue to check on Julia's progress in testing the samples.

"Oh, Julia," he sighed. "May I tell you once again how much I love you and how truly fortunate I am to have found someone like you?" he asked as she answered the phone.

Laughing heartily, her response lifted his spirits again. "I take it Mrs. Batting was a most charming and beguiling woman?" she asked.

"Oh, most appealing," he sarcastically quipped as she laughed again. His mood brightened even more at being the man who could make this woman her laugh like that. "What do you have so far?" he asked.

"We're close to being done, if you believe it! I actually got several volunteers from the medical college to come in and help me, and these ladies are most excellent chemists," she proudly stated. "They're quite keen to learn more about poisons and the compositions of various drugs and concoctions and how they can impact the body."

"That's wonderful. Might you have an answer soon?" he asked hopefully.

"Yes, I think they might be finishing up now, so as soon as we discuss our findings, I can come over to report to you in person?" she asked.

"You should know that I will never object to seeing you, Mrs. Murdoch, in more ways than one," he assured her as the call ended.

Thinking of his wife and lover, he was thankful for what seemed like the millionth time that he could share all aspects of his life with Julia, including work. He truly loved how their professional and personal interests blended into their lives so seamlessly, and that he could discuss a case after relations just as he had done last night.

Just then he found himself wondering if Norris Snow had shared anything of an intimate nature with anyone and he suddenly remembered that there had been something most unusual about Rita Love's behavior at his visitation. William decided that perhaps it might be useful to speak with the _Gazette's_ reporter and find out what her exact relationship had been with the victim. Even if his hunch that they had been lovers was off, the woman seemed to know everything, and she might just have some useful information. Placing a phone call to the _Gazette,_ the woman agreed to meet him in 30 minutes time.

After checking the interview room to see how Mrs. Batting was doing, and seeing that she was enjoying flirting with Higgins (it seems the man was somewhat useful after all), William returned to his office and began creating a list of suspects at his chalkboard made all the more difficult by the secretiveness with which Mr. Snow had lived his life. Sighing, he created a column for names, another for motive, and another for alibi when the constables returned from searching Mr. Batting's workshop, reporting that not much else of note had been found on the premises inside, outside, or even in the trash that had yet to be collected. This included no syringe.

Sighing, he put his chalk down he decided to speak with Mr. Batting again, hoping a night in the cells had loosened his tongue or at least increased his desire for telling the truth.

###

It turned out that now that his wife, _Mrs._ Batting, was fully involved and he not desiring to spend another night in the less than inviting conditions of the cells of station house No. 4, _Mr._ Batting readily admitted to having spent Wednesday afternoon at McGuinness' Pub, just as his secretary had theorized.

"Why didn't you tell me this yesterday, man? It could have saved everyone a great deal of trouble?" William asked incredulously.

"I don't know…I didn't want my wife to find out, I guess." The man forlornly stated.

"Then why use her as an alibi in the first place?" William wondered.

"I was hoping she wouldn't answer the phone, or would just forget and say that I was home," the man cryptically said.

It didn't make much sense to him, but with this bit of information in hand, William immediately dispatched a constable to check the man's alibi.

# # #

"Please have a seat, Miss Love," William offered politely and with a smile. He was having this discussion in the Inspector's office, not to specifically intimidate the woman, but because he thought discretion was paramount and this room was more private than his office, whilst Mrs. Batting was occupying the interview room.

"Detective Murdoch. Why am I here? I don't suppose it is to offer me an exclusive story on one of your cases. Is it?" Miss Love shifted only slightly in her chair and offered a wary smile in return.

William had his hands clasped on the desk and opened them in apology. "No. It is not. But I do wish to discuss Norris Snow's murder." He noticed the corners of her green eyes tighten and he spied the reddened areas, suspecting she'd been crying. "I saw you at Mr. Snow's calling hours." He waited for her next reaction-which was to keep her face frozen in a neutral, superficially pleasant expression, trying to give nothing away- as he expected. Miss Love was warm and pleasant, but tough at the same time—she'd have to be considering her occupation. "You were the only one there who did not pay their respects at the coffin nor did you interact with anyone else there-most of whom were your and his colleagues of one kind of another." William waited again so see her reaction. He knew he had to consider her a possible suspect, despite his instinct lying in another direction. Miss Love remained unmoving, not giving into the silence which stretched out between them. _I am going to have to watch her carefully and push the truth out of her, considering the first time I questioned her she nearly hijacked the interview_. William sighed to himself, gathered his thoughts and commenced:

"Miss Love. I believe you were at Norris Snow's calling hours because you and he were more than colleagues." The woman kept her face calm, but her hands twitched while she remained silent.

"I believe you and he were involved. _Romantically_." Her eyes widened fractionally but she did not deny it.

"The question is, therefore, why, when you probably knew him best, have you not come forward with any information to help find his killer?" This time, she looked like she'd been slapped, her face flooded with blood and her cool green eyes misted. William waited until the emotion in her turned from shock to anger, only mildly ashamed at himself for such a brutal tactic - but he was running out of time. "Is it because you can be implicated in his death? Just before his death, we know he was arguing about a woman-are you that woman?"

"No!" The sound erupted from Miss Love's throat. "I am not! That is ridiculous!" She leaned forward over the deskin agitation.

"No to which question, Miss Love? To being the woman he was arguing about or being involved in his death?"

"Both!"

"Then, why not come forward? It is no secret we are investigating his death."

Her pulse raced in her neck and she was breathing harder. She looked at him, still angry but with the added emotion of guilt or shame he thought. He sat back and waited some more while she found her gumption.

"Detective, Norris and I _were_ …intimate. I was humiliated to admit my connection to him, to have been a fool, because it is also no secret that everyone is saying he was heavily involved with prostitutes. That tidbit of information has been leaked everywhere-all those prying eyes at the funeral! I just don't want to believe it! " She wiped her face, then looked up. "My position as a female journalist is precarious enough-there _are_ only _two_ of us in Toronto. Being caught up in a sex scandal and murder will undercut my reputation and credibility. It was hard enough to lose _him_ …I don't want to lose my career too, not after how hard I fought to get it." Miss Love sat ram-rod straight, daring William to wound her any further.

William considered the woman before him. "Where were you between twelve noon and five o'clock the afternoon of his death?"

"I was covering the warehouse fire and aftermath. I interviewed the Fire Chief and the Alderman, then I went back to the office to type up my story in time for the evening edition."

"I am also going to want to search your residence and your office. If you have nothing to hide it will be a mere formality." He got a glare from her and then a nod-he was not going to say he was looking for poisons, since that would _give_ her more information than he's _gotten_ from her. "As it happens, I agree with you about Mr. Snow's character. He was not _availing_ himself of the women he was writing about in the brothels. He was not only discrete, he was apparently faithful to you." Miss Love's face was transformed by her thoughts-surprise, then gratitude, then grief in quick succession.

"I _knew_ it, she murmured. "I never should have doubted him."

"Miss Love. I promise that in the end the truth about Norris Snow will come out-but I am not in the position to clear his reputation at the moment. You understand, don't you? I am hoping you will help us catch his killer. Where did he keep the notes for the stories he was working on, his drafts, his research?" William thought she'd know if anyone did.

"Norris had a prodigious memory, Detective. I don't know if you've ever met anyone like this but he recalled, almost verbatim, anything he read. He kept in a journal that was always on his person with the essence of what he was writing, names, facts, occasionally things to jog his memory or when he needed a precise reference. His manuscripts were only two places-work or his boarding house. He kept his personal work at home and his professional work at the newspaper, locked in his desk. Why are you asking?"

"First: do you know what he was working on?"

"Yes. Norris was rather secretive about his work, but he did end up telling me he had three active projects going that were nearly completed-not unusual for a writer as prolific as he…was. He had an expose about patent medications in Toronto-just like he did one in Chicago. It was on hold though until the editor gave the go-ahead. He was doing a piece on prostitution-not the usual exploration of the men who use these women, but about the women's lives-their _real_ lives. And he was writing a novel-I understand it was nearly complete."

That confirmed the basic facts already discovered. "Do you know of any reason for someone to want to kill Mr. Snow?"

Miss Love's voice was grave. "It is a little known fact of life…journalists are intimidated all the time, especially when they are writing about important yet unpopular subjects-unpopular because they point out corruption or threaten a political figure or a man's riches." Her face darkened. "He made no mention to me of anyone making any threats to him. But if I correctly infer from what you said—I take it his papers are gone?" He nodded. "Then I think the fact the notes are gone indicates Norris was targeted because of what he was writing—there is your motive, detective. He would have likely been working up some new stories as well, which would be outlined in his journal—he kept everything of importance there and never let it out of his sight. Do you think perhaps he was assassinated for what he uncovered?"

# # #

William was thoughtful as he watched Miss Love exit towards the street from the Inspector's private entrance. The reporter and his wife scraped by each other in the vestibule, but neither woman paused. Julia caught his eye and he rose to greet her and escort her back to his own office, where the telephone was ringing.

William answered the call and made a face, thanking his caller and hanging up. "I take it you have your results, doctor?"

"Yes," she said. "I think we do." She sat in the chair across from his desk. "Our results indicate that the material in Mr. Batting's possession at his workshop match the ingredients in his products—hardly surprising. He imports many of his ingredients from Germany and purchases the rest from Ontario and New York. Also not surprising. What _is_ surprising is that the purity of the heroin in his possession is much less than what was in Mr. Snow's body. One can easily decrease purity but it is harder to increase it, requiring equipment not in his possession. He never even did his own distillations. William, I don't think Mr. Batting supplied the drug that killed Mr. Snow!"

He shook his head and pointed to the chalkboard's grid and lists. "There are no known scuffles between Mr. Snow and Mr. Batting. No proximate cause or motive since the exposé was not going to be published any time soon. By the time Mr. Wick allowed it, Mr. Batting would have made his fortune and likely been gone, or changed his tune about what he produced. Henry finished turning his workshop and warehouse over-no syringes. That was the constable I sent over to Mr. Batting's pub—he was indeed there all afternoon. His alibi checks out. You tell me the heroin does not match." He looked at Julia. "I think we are going to have to let him go."

"I'm sorry, William, but I agree." Julia answered. She stood to leave when George appeared in the doorway.

"Sir. I showed Mr. Batting's picture to the ladies at Madame Le Chabanais'. No one recognized him. We searched the premises—and while we turned up a few items, there was only rat poison, and no medical devices such as syringes. The Madam is convincing that she did not know about the article he was writing—on medical remedies nor on other "vices." I cannot find an actual motive for anyone else there to have killed Mr. Snow."

Julia weighed in. "Remember that Mr. Snow was poisoned over time. Even were it to turn out that he was poisoned at the brothel, there is no reason to connect that act to the Madam."

George agreed and shrugged.

"Thank you, George." He paused. "I agree as well. There is not enough evidence to connect Mr. Batting to Mr. Snow's death. Please send a constable to release Mr. Batting and send his wife along with him."

While George was doing so, William went to the blackboard and used his eraser. When he was done, there was very little left: _**"Means"**_ was poison delivered in a syringe; secondarily Snow was poisoned, likely deliberately. Access had a question mark on it. Under _**"Motive,"**_ William wrote "missing papers." Under _**"Opportunity"**_ he wrote "Home," "Work," and "Other."

George and Henry joined detective and doctor in a semi-circle inform of the slate. When they were settled, William began. "Doctor, gentlemen… We have made no progress at all with knowing who the "she" is that Norris Snow and some other man were fighting about. Perhaps since there are no known threats towards Mr. Snow, the overheard argument was Mr. Snow threatening another man. We have crossed off Mr. Batting and his wife from our suspect list. We have also crossed off Madame Le Chabanais and her employees as well. I spoke with Miss Rita Love, a colleague of Mr. Snow who was also his paramour. It seems unlikely she was the woman that was being argued about. She has an alibi that I am pretty sure will check out. She says he was very secretive about his writing and only kept work at work and personal writing at home; and his journal with him at all times. Miss Love believes he was killed, _assassinated_ is the word she used, because of what he was writing about, as evidenced by his missing papers and notes on stories..." He made eye contact with his audience. "I have decided I agree with her. But perhaps not in the way she thinks. To obtain the papers may have been why he was killed—but we have no way of verifying exactly what about them was so important it required killing to keep it quiet."

"We also need to find someone who had access to Mr. Snow to poison him, and who knew that the papers were so dangerous." Henry pointed out.

"It seems that the place with that sort of overlap would be at the _Tattler_ itself," George added. "But how was that done?"

Julia wondered. "And by whom?"

All four were silent, then Julia stood. "Detective? I have an idea about how else to introduce chemicals into Mr. Snow's body, but I need access to some of the evidence seized from the newspaper office and his home. May I?" she asked, walking over to the box of items she was interested in.

As he had no objection, she left with her selection, with Henry carrying the crate.

George and William looked at each other glumly. Eventually George spoke: "So, I must tell you that in thinking about Mr. Snow, I was inspired to go home and work on my latest novel. You know, he was one of those muckrakers, and I was thinking that perhaps I should make one of my characters one, as they are a heroic sort sir. Just think, they still seek justice and truth just as we do, so I suppose I feel that they are a sort of kindred spirit to us. Also…" George would have expounded more, but William cut him off.

"Yes, George. Your point." William reminded him.

"Yes, sir. As I was doing so, I needed to replace my typewriter ribbon, and that's when I realized that though Mr. Snow's notes may be missing or possibly even destroyed, there should at least be a partial record of what he typed, actually recorded _on_ his typewriting ribbons at the newspaper and his home—as you recall he had a habit of never reusing one. We may not learn everything, but at least we could know what he was last working on, which may help us." George explained.

Shaking his head in annoyance that he didn't think of it himself, William sighed. _Of course_ , he thought. Out loud, he nodded his head in agreement, "Very good, George. And if you will recall, it was Mr. Bannon who criticized Mr. Snow as a sinner for spending his time with prostitutes as well as sent us in the direction of Mr. Batting. Mr. Bannon who sits right next to Mr. Snow in the office. Mr. Bannon who did not attend the calling hours or funeral of his colleague..."

"George, get your helmet. We're going back to the _Tattler_ and to Mr. Snow's boarding house. We need those typewriters," William instructed. "Best take the carriage as who knows what other evidence may be useful to us."

"Sir, perhaps we should stop by Mme. Le Chabanais establishment and show her and the other girls Mr. Bannon's picture? It's possible they might recognize him.

"Excellent idea again, George!"


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

The detective and his constable made their first stop at Mr. Snow's boarding house where they seized his personal typewriting machine and collected the myriad of bottles present in the window. Next, they went by the offices of the _Tattler_ and seized the typewriting machine there as well, hoping they would find motive and a suspect on one or both of these machines.

On their way back to the station, they made a brief stop at Madame Le Chabanais' house where they were again greeted by the same butler who had shown them in the first time, this time far less formally attired. It was early yet.

Upon seeing William and George again, the man sighed deeply, clearly hesitant to upset his boss once again.

"The sooner you allow us in, sir, the sooner we will be gone," William offered, feeling somewhat sorry for the man.

"Madame is not yet awake, Detective," he quietly explained.

"We'll wait. In the meantime, which of the young ladies are awake? We'll speak with them first," William told him as they pushed their way in the door. A quick glance at the clock told him that it was past noon, he doubted the house's inhabitants would be asleep much longer if they were to have time to get ready before the evening's guests arrived.

Walking around the drawing room, this time William and George made no pretense they weren't studying the artworks on the wall. Many of the pictures that caught William's attention last time caught his eye again - particularly those featuring the siege d'amour, and other platforms for connection. Truth be told, he wanted to study the choices in greater detail, curious to see if he could recreate something for himself from existing furniture, or if it would need to be something he would need to commission? In fact, could any furniture maker create the piece, or would he have to seek out a particular maker? He doubted they were mass-produced, so it would be costly, but given the unique positions that the pieces could afford him and Julia, he felt that it might be worth it. So caught up in studying it, he failed to notice Mademoiselle Chastity approach him, clearly naked beneath her dressing gown in much the same way Julia had been the night before.

"Detective Murdoch, I see that you are most intrigued by that position. Are you sure you don't care to come upstairs and experience it for yourself?" she asked from behind. "I am most willing."

Startled, William spun around, embarrassed at having been caught out. Blushing, he looked down. But since there was no point it denying it, he decided to own up to his curiosity. "Actually, Mademoiselle Chastity, I'm most intrigued by the piece of furniture. I've never seen anything like it before, and I was wondering if you happened to know where it was obtained, or if it was made specifically for Mme. Le Chabanais?" William asked before realizing how inappropriate his question truly was. "I'm simply curious because I think such a person must be quite skilled and obviously a craftsman," he quickly explained, shocked at his own forwardness. A quick glance at George reassured him that the man was far too intently studying another erotic painting.

"Rest assured, Detective, you are not the first to ask. I believe I have heard Madame boast that she imported it directly from Paris at a most incredible expense. But I have also heard her state that there is a chair maker near Cabbagetown who has custom made other pieces based on sketches Madame got from Paris. Miles and Sons I do believe it was," she informed him with a wink.

"Thank you for all of your information, Mademoiselle Chastity, I cannot thank you enough for the details you have provided. They may assist us in catching Mr. Snow's killer yet. However, I do have one more question to ask of you. Do you know this man?" he asked, holding up a picture of Mr. Bannon.

Mademoiselle Chastity wrinkled her nose and grimaced pettily. "Why yes, that's Martin, of course. Dreadful man, he is. Not at all a gentleman like you. Now that you mention it, he could very well have been the other voice I thought I heard with Mr. Snow. He was a regular here six month's back. Then he returned again—they always do you know. It's been a few days since I've seen him and that's unusual…" she trailed off, looking around. Seeing that another girl had come down, still scantily dressed in a sheer nightdress, Chastity called her over.

"Patience, when was the last time you saw Martin?" she asked pointing at the picture.

Brow furrowed, the girl looked at the picture. "Ugh. It's been a few days, thankfully." she confirmed.

"Mademoiselle Patience, is it? Do you know this man?" William asked, pointing to the picture to confirm.

"Yes, that's Martin, everyone knows him. He used to come in here almost nightly," she stated, rolling her eyes. "The last time we saw him he was quite a sight!"

Mademoiselle Patience laughed. "And a _smell_ too! Not like you and your fellow officer…"

"Ladies, forgive me for asking, but you don't seem to have a favorable opinion of Mr. Bannon. May I ask why?" William wondered.

"Most men here aren't much to look at, but usually they're a decent sort, and don't hurt us or make us do anything we don't want to do. But this man does, he enjoys humiliating us some times and hurting us at others. Madame has told us to endure some of it, but when we persisted, she said she was going to have a talk with him, warn him that he best mend his ways or she would have him escorted out and not allow him to return," Mademoiselle Chastity replied.

"Most girls won't see him anymore. Maybe that's why he stopped coming…Madame spoke with him already?" Mademoiselle Patience offered as well.

"That is pertinent information indeed, ladies. And you say that he hasn't been seen here in days despite being a regular? Do you happen to remember when that last time was?" William asked, feeling like he was maybe finally on the right track.

"All the days blur together," she answered with a shrug. "Perhaps Madame knows. She usually keeps track of such things in her book," she replied.

By this time, more ladies had come down and all had confirmed that Martin Bannon was a regular who hadn't been seen in a few days, and that none of them cared for the man's sadism. Finally, Madame Le Chabanais herself came down with an angry look, no doubt already having been informed that the Constabulary had returned.

Hoping to ward off the woman's foul mood, quickly gain her cooperation, and quickly get back to the station, William held up a hand in peace. "Madame Le Chabanais, I apologize for taking up your time once again, but your girls have already confirmed that they know this man, and I was wondering if you could confirm his name as well as the last date he was here? It may be pertinent to our case," he explained, trying to encourage her that as long as she complied, their departure would soon be imminent. Visibly pushing down her anger, she nodded.

"Yes, that's Mr. Bannon, and the last day he was here Tuesday evening I do believe," she responded opening up her book to check the details. "Yes, he hasn't been here since Tuesday," she confirmed. "Is he involved in this matter?" she asked. "It wouldn't surprise me at all, I never did care for the man."

"That's what I'm trying to figure out," William replied. "Why continue to allow him entrance if you or the ladies didn't care for him?

"Because cash is still cash, even if it comes from an unrefined boor – at least until a certain point. Truth be told, I was very close to asking him to leave and not return, as most of the girls couldn't abide him," she admitted.

"I see. Thank you ladies, all of you, for your help. We'll show ourselves out," he stated, as he motioned George to follow him. By this time George was surrounded by a few ladies who were admiring his uniform. "George!" William barked.

"Sorry, sir," the man replied amidst a sea of giggles.

# # #

Arriving back at the station, William had George immediately set to work upon the typewriting machines to remove and hopefully decipher the ribbons. George deftly opened up the cover of the Oliver machine, and pulled out the spooled ribbon. "This is an Underwood ribbon made for an older model of Oliver, much like my own. You can see that it has been wound back up only about three quarters of the way." George set the spools flat on his desk and used pencils to spear the center holes. "I am praying that he's been consistent in his habit of never using a ribbon twice."

William handed George a large magnifier. "We need to know what Mr. Snow was writing about that could have gotten him killed."

"Yes sir." He lectured the detective as he worked. "Certain typestyles damage the cotton ribbon more than others when the steel strikes the ribbon, depositing ink of the page behind it as it rests against the platten. How hard the typewriter hits the keys, the kind of paper all play a part of course. But…." he pulled out a section for the detective to appreciate. "You can see here where the cotton fibers are fractured that it is possible to see most of the individual letters which were struck. Sir! I think this is going to work!"

"That is excellent George."

"Thank you. Do you think Mr. Bannon was involved?"

"It is my best line of inquiry, George. He injected himself into our investigation and gave us what turned out to be false information about Mr. Snow—initially leading us astray. Then we have witnesses who suggest Mr. Bannon and Mr. Snow argued the night before he was killed—one man threatening the other, even if we are not sure who threatened whom or about which woman."

"Or professional jealousy, perhaps? Instead of Mr. Snow plagiarizing, perhaps it was Mr. Bannon who wanted some sort of glory and stole his stories. It must be boring and not very rewarding to write about financial matters, don't you think?" He angled the ribbon to see better. "Sir. All I see so far on this ribbon is the last portion of Mr. Snow's novel. I, er… took it upon myself to read the manuscript thoroughly, for evidentiary value only, of course."

"Of course." William was disappointed. "Nothing else?"

"It will take me a while to look at both ribbons." George examined the Underwood machine from the _Tattler_ offices. "Now _this_ is a fine machine, with a standard one-half inch ribbon. Since we are in a rush, perhaps I will get Higgins to help."

"Go to it. Get anyone you want to assist you. I need conclusive evidence, George. Mr. Bannon may be an extremely unlikable character, but we cannot allow this to influence our investigation." William reminded George as he turned back to his blackboard, working through a potential case against Mr. Bannon. He had only speculation about the interference the newspaper man may have perpetrated in the case. He had no known motive other than an argument overheard by two prostitutes—which was too weak. **"Opportunity"** was clear—Mr. Bannon was a co-worker who would have had personal access to poisoning him as well as his papers. **"Means"** was unclear, but as there was no regulation about accessibility to various drugs and poisons anyone might be able to obtain these chemicals.

William checked his watch. _Time is flying_. He picked up the telephone to call Julia while he was waiting for George and Henry to finish. The handset rang only twice when his wife swept in to his office excitedly, Miss James and two of her students trailing behind. "Detective, we have it! One of the reasons we did not find poison in Mr. Snow's stomach contents is that he was being given small doses on a daily basis. His pens, pencils, his tea spoon, even his ivory tooth - pick, all were covered with arsenic residue which was likely directly absorbed into the blood stream. We also know why that did not out and out kill him. It is because usually when someone is exposed that way, a little bit at a time, it can create a sort of immunity to the poison—the body can build resistance to it."

"It is called 'mithridatism.'" Miss James continued at Dr. Ogden's urging. "You should know that depending on the poison, it can still lead to lethal levels of a poison in the body, depending on the individual's constitution."

"Like the King of Pontus?" William was not quite sure how to interpret the data. "So you think he was doing it to himself?"

"Unlikely, detective." Miss James continued. "Simply coating random objects with a poison is not an effective way of doing that. No. What I mean is that someone was trying to poison him but because of _how_ he was doing so, it actually rendered the poisoning less effective."

"So. One more piece of evidence. But it does not get us any closer to a killer." William scratched his forehead.

"Actually it does," Julia smiled. "Ladies?"

William had ignored the two students until now. He gave them his attention.

"Detective Murdoch. Our analysis shows that none of the items from Mr. Snow's room were affected: only those found in his office were tainted. That means the opportunity was at the _Tattler_." The dark haired student beamed her news at him, when she was startled by George shouting in the bullpen.

"Sir! I've got it!" George rushed into the detective's office-his hands were black from the ink and a certain amount was painted on his face and Henry's too. "Listen to this! I had to guess at a few letters, but…Quote: 'You are going to pay me or pay the price with your wife. I told you to stay away from those girls and you just would not listen. I'll take another $15 right off the top—I will see you tomorrow, Bannon. Have my money ready.' Unquote. We have him sir! Mr. Bannon's motive was to shed himself of a blackmailer!"

"And didn't you tell me his breath smelled appalling?" Julia asked. William nodded. "I am going to want to examine him, but I think we are going to find out Mr. Bannon has mistakenly poisoned himself."

Out into the bullpen he shouted. "Henry! George! Get cleaned up and call Mr. Bannon and Mr. Snow's banks. I want to see those records."

A short while later, Henry had been successful in reaching the bank manager for Mr. Bannon's bank, and had informed him that there had been a series of withdrawals every Friday for the past six months for the same amount. A few minutes later, Norris Snow's bank contacted him that there had been a series of matching deposits for the same amount made either late in the day Friday or early Monday for the same time period.

 _The Inspector would be proud that we are following his aphorism about the money,_ William thought with a smirk before regaining his composure.

"Henry? Bring Mr. Bannon in for a visit and see if we can bring justice to Mr. Snow, and while you are there, secure his house. Take two constables with you. George? I'll need you to pay another visit to the _Tattler_ and tell Mr. Wick we need everything from Mr. Bannon's desk. If he refuses, tell him we'll get a warrant," William ordered.

As both men nodded in understanding and replied with their customary "yes, sirs," they scuttled off to complete their tasks.

Taking a deep breath to clear his head, William set about gathering his evidence and collecting his thoughts, mentally cataloguing what it was he needed to do get a confession, something he desperately wanted.

###

With everything in order in his file, William was looking outside his office window as the sky took on the hues of sunset, saddened that he had lost a beautiful Saturday to this case, but hopeful that he was about to solve it. About an hour after he left, George was the first to return with items of interest from Martin Bannon's desk. "No need for a warrant sir. Mr. Wick was all too happy to allow me to take anything I wanted," George offered as an explanation as he presented the box to William.

Immediately taking a look at the objects, William was heartened to see a bottle of _Fowler's Solution_ , a product that boasted arsenic oxide and a bottle of Bayer's Heroin. "Please take everything to Dr. Ogden at once, George. Please let her know I need them as soon as possible," William requested.

Alas, there had been no syringe found in the man's desk, but William presumed that he would not have been dumb enough to hold onto it, much like the victim's wallet and personal items had been discarded unless they had been of monetary value, and those had been pawned. _Too bad the pawnbroker wouldn't be able to give an accurate description…_

 _Hopefully Julia is right and that he's been inadvertently poisoning himself as well._

Thirty minutes later, Higgins finally returned with their new suspect, Martin Bannon. "Sorry sir, he wasn't at the office or at home. His residence is under a discrete guard. I had to wait until he and his wife returned home from the park it seems," Henry offered.

"Quite all right Henry, you found him. I take it he's in the interview room?"

"Yes, sir. I told him we needed him for additional assistance in Mr. Snow's death inquiry," the Constable added.

"So he doesn't know he's our new chief suspect, then? Excellent, Henry," William said as he picked up the phone to call the morgue.

"Julia. How is the testing going?" William asked his wife, unconsciously pulling on his tie. All his energy was gone from earlier in the day; all he wanted to go home and spend another night with his wife like he had last night.

"Quite well, William. The _Fowler's Solution_ you sent over should only contain approximately 1% arsenic, yet I'm fairly sure it's been adulterated with more, since the sample from Mr. Bannon's desk contains slightly more, but not enough to kill him, which is probably why Mr. Snow wasn't deathly ill, but only presented with the symptoms of a cold, especially given since he didn't directly ingest any of the product. Mr. Bannon I'd wager, since he was directly handling the arsenic, should have come into contact with more of it, and should be showing signs of arsenic poisoning-even more so that Mr. Snow would have since the arsenic was introduced to him in a way that would have allowed him to build up immunity," she explained.

"Good, that is excellent news. Perhaps we'll close this up tonight yet, eh?" he asked.

"For both of our sakes I certainly hope so," she teased.

"Later," he murmured. "Are you at a point where you can step away? Our suspect has arrived," he asked.

"Yes, all that's left is very simple testing that even you could perform, Detective," she teased again.

"Amusing, Julia. I'll remember that later," he teased back as he ended the call and resumed his seriousness. He still had work to do.

Taking a few moments to gather his thoughts and offer a prayer that he would serve the Lord's will, William once again ran over the pertinent details as he waited for his wife to come to the station. He selected a variety of items which buttressed his case against Mr. Bannon and assembled them on a tray he covered with one of his white handkerchiefs. A few minutes later, the playful and curious Julia of earlier had been replaced by a no-nonsense professional, her blue suit immaculate and fully buttoned up and her hair swept back in a bun. "Shall we?" she asked while standing at his door way.

Mr. Martin Bannon fidgeted in his seat, and was startled when Detective Murdoch and Dr. Ogden entered the interview room. William placed his tray nonchalantly to the side, and his file directly on the table in front of his suspect. _Here we go._

"Thank you for coming in, Mr. Bannon. This is our coroner, Dr. Julia Ogden. She has completed the autopsy of your colleague Norris Snow. We know several things we did not know before."

"How can I help you, detective?" He asked, pulling his hand which had a slight tremor, off the table into his lap.

"We know that Norris Snow was murdered, injected with an overdose of heroin. We also know, in addition, that he was being poisoned. You were so helpful for our investigation, Mr. Bannon, pointing us to various houses of ill repute to hunt for suspects and clues and giving us insights into the victim."

Bannon relaxed and smiled. "You are welcome. Anything I can do to be helpful. Was it an angry pimp who murdered him, perhaps? Or was it ol' Doc Batty himself?" he asked, slightly leering at Julia.

Without even thinking about it, William moved to stand between the man and his wife. Suddenly the room was not big enough for there to be the distance between Bannon and Julia that William wanted.

Unaware of the man's character, or of William's need to have a barrier between them, Julia needed no additional time at all for her analysis of the man and weighed in, stepping forward to speak. The suspect's appearance told her all she needed to know as she cut directly to the chase. "It may be how we can help you, Mr. Bannon. You appear to be suffering from ill health. Tremor, thinning hair, dark skin tone, foul breath and, if I am not mistaken, _Aldrich-Mees_ lines on your fingernails?" Julia paused a beat, watching a bead of sweat role down his face before pronouncing. "I'd say you were poisoned."

" _Poisoned!"_ Mr. Bannon was aghast, gripping his hands into fists and his eyes opened over-wide. The confident, smug countenance was gone and William initiated his plan, flipping over the cover on his tray to reveal two bottles found at his office and the rest of the evidence. "Surely that should not come as much of a surprise, Mr. Bannon." 

"Come again…?" His face blanched.

William set out the tainted pens, placing them carefully on the table, just out of Bannon's reach. "Only someone who was close with Mr. Snow would have known about his habit of putting things into his mouth when he wrote; nasty habit, eh? And only someone with access to those items could have painted them with poison. But that is such a sloppy method—subject to getting so much of the poison on one's self, isn't that so?"

" _ **What?"**_ He stuttered. "I…I...have no idea, detective. If Norris was being poisoned, then it appears the same man poisoned me too! I insist you investigate that as well." Bannon's voice rose dramatically and he beseeched Julia. "Poisoned? Doctor, if I'm sick would you…"

"Who would want _you_ dead?" William interrupted. " _No one._ But yes…I do think the same man who was poisoning Mr. Snow also poisoned you." He gave a long pause. "It _was_ you! We have the poison you used on Mr. Snow, which is how your acquired own collateral exposure to the toxins." He said flatly, setting the next items out.

William picked up a flat tin box containing one typewriting machine ribbon and a small card. "Did you know that it is possible to recover the impression of the letters which have been typed on a machine's ribbon? My constable knows just everything about those machines it seems… But, I digress. Those strings of letters can form words." He read from the card. "Quote: You are going to pay me or pay the price with your wife. I told you to stay away from those girls and you just would not listen. I'll take another $15 right off the top—I will see you tomorrow, Bannon. Have my money ready.' Norris Snow was blackmailing you, threatening to expose your behaviors to your wife, and baldly conducting it all from one desk away at the newspaper: we have the proof he was."

William methodically presented each piece of evidence in front of his suspect, watching the cracks in Bannon's composure getting wider with each revelation. "I have your bank records which show payments from your account show up in his, and witnesses who heard you argue with him. That is what we call _**motive**_ **.** We have a liquid heroin solution in your possession which matches that which was injected into Mr. Snow. We call that _**means**_ **.** And you worked at the desk next to him, with full access to his desk, his papers, his habits and his journal. You have no alibi for the afternoon of his death. We call that _**opportunity.**_ Who knows what we will discover once we have interviewed your wife and searched your house? Perhaps we will find trace evidence on your clothing, or your shoes, from when you viciously beat and kicked him in that alley before you plunged a syringe into him and left him to die. Perhaps Dr. Ogden here will find recent, fresh trauma to your feet, since it's doubtful a man such as yourself owns a pair of boots. We call all of this _**evidence**_." William waited as the ruin of a man in front of him seemed to actually waver back and forth in his chair, praying Bannon would tip himself into a confession. _I need a confession,_ he repeated silently to himself, _because I do not have that syringe and nothing, yet, directly tying Bannon to Snow in that alley by the soap-works._

Mr. Bannon's gaze wandered between the table top with its pile of evidence, Julia and the detective. William slammed his hand on the table, causing Bannon to jump. "Do I have your undivided attention now, Mr. Bannon?"

Bannon's anxious eyes darted between detective and doctor, settling on the doctor. "Am I going to die? Doctor please just tell me!"

William intervened. "Not at this very moment. First, tell us what happened, _exactly_. It might go well for you if you do and then you can get a physician to tend to you." _A doctor who certainly won't be my wife. Not if I have anything to say about it,_ William thought.

# # #


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Constable Jackson took a sobbing Martin Bannon to the cells, while William reorganized the case evidence for the crown prosecutor, and Julia, Henry and George shared their opinions back in the detective's office.

"So Mr. Snow was not as innocent as we thought, was he?" Julia stated. "A blackmailer, and a rather cheeky one at that considering he typed his blackmail notes at work… even if he gave the money to women to get themselves out of the life of prostitution. That was why Mr. Snow had all those cards on him for charities. I suppose he thought it was poetic justice to take Mr. Bannon's blackmail money and spend it that way."

"Indeed, doctor. Snow's exposé on patent medicines actually gave Mr. Bannon the idea of poisoning as well as using 'Doctor Batty's formulas and setting up Mr. Batting as a suspect." George shook his head sadly. "This sounds like one of the Shakespeare plays the inspector is so fond of-a tragedy."

Henry tried to defend him. "Well—if Mr. Bannon's wife hadn't been, er…refusing him for years and if he had been able to keep himself out of trouble…I mean he could have found other, um companionship, then he would not have been subject to blackmail…"

"Henry—don't make any excuses for him." William admonished. "He makes enough of them for himself. He tried to say he didn't really mean to kill Norris Snow; just wanted him to be humiliated and found in a compromising situation as if he was a drug user. Except he stalked the man to that alley, slammed him against the wall and had a syringe full of heroin on him to do the final deed. He stole Snow's keys and money, raided his rooming house and his office, destroyed his journal, burned his papers and threw away as much of the evidence he could get his hand on. If he'd have remembered about the ribbons then we'd have a much tougher case. Besides, after hearing some of the things George and I have heard about the man, his wife may have had just cause to refuse her husband relations," as he shut the box of evidence, satisfied with the contents. "So don't feel sorry for the man."

"The persons I feel sorry for are Mr. Bannon's wife and Miss Love; both women were deceived and both lost the men they loved," Julia added thoughtfully. "I gave Mrs. Bannon a sedative and sent her home with a constable."

William thought about the promise he made to Miss Love to clear Mr. Snow's reputation once the case was solved. "Miss Love is a strong, sensible person. She will recover and the constabulary will be discrete about her connection to Mr. Snow—while she was wrong about his being assassinated because of the stories he wrote, she did provide key evidence." He was not going to be able to protect Mr. Snow's reputation once the papers got a hold of the story, but he might be able to shelter her. He rose from his seat.

"Gentlemen. Please finish up the paperwork and get what you can from Mr. Bannon's house. Then we are done for today."

# # #

Calling ahead to the hotel, Julia managed to have Beef Burgoyne delivered to their suite at 9:00 pm, minutes after they had arrived home. Praying that there wouldn't be another call to attend to, they sat down to enjoy their meal and one another. Though Norris Snow hadn't been utilizing the services of prostitutes, Martin Bannon had, and Snow's death had been a result of his work in exposing the sex trade, a service William still found distasteful.

"It seems that this whole thing could have been avoided if Martin Bannon had just remained faithful to his wife, and treated her like a good husband should," William opined. "If he'd done that, he would never have been blackmailed, and he would never be facing the noose for premeditated murder."

Taking a sip of her wine, Julia shrugged. "If it is true that Mrs. Bannon was refusing him relations, perhaps he should have been upfront with her about how he would handle those needs, then he wouldn't have been nearly as open to blackmail, and this arrangement would have remained a private matter between Mr. Bannon and his wife. They certainly wouldn't be the first couple to come to such an agreement nor will they be the last," she countered with a faraway look in her eye.

"Well, yes, I suppose that's true. But what about those women in the brothels or even those on the streets being controlled by their pimps who don't want to be there? Surely someone such as you cares about them and how they're being mistreated?" he asked

"If they are there against their will, or are being forced into things they would rather not do, then yes, I am thankful that Mr. Snow was a Robin Hood of sorts, and was using his ill-gotten gains to assist the young women who wanted a new life. I hope there are others who will be inspired to take up his work as word of his exploits comes out, but just as Mademoiselle Chastity told you, there are some women who enjoy sex, and to make a living from it is what they desire. Surely what they want is important as well?" she inquired.

"Of course it's important. I just wish there were a way to be honest about it, that there were a way to know for sure that all parties were there of their own free will and no one was being deceived," William confessed. "Of course, one could just marry for love and commit to enjoying their spouse as God intended. There is no shame in doing so, provided that both parties agree to what is being asked," he readily confessed.

"Did William Murdoch just admit that there is no shame or even 'dark places' within the bonds of holy matrimony? Does this mean that I can look forward to him sharing some more of his fantasies with me?" she teased.

Laughing, he shook his head. "Perhaps, so," he admitted. "I believe that one of the things I find most distasteful about prostitution, aside from the physical risk the women take, is the men's desire to engage in acts one would never do with one's wife. For years Julia, as I stared at your backside, I am somewhat ashamed to admit that I have desired to bend you over a surface and take you from behind as I did the other night. I must know, did that degrade you in any way?" he asked.

"No, it did not. It excited me to have you behave the way that you did, to take me as you desired, William. If you must know, I'd always suspected you must have fantasized about such a thing given how often I realized you were staring at my backside. Besides, you made sure that I received pleasure as well. You were not selfish. As much as I enjoyed playing the role of a courtesan, I would not want to be a prostitute, as you were absolutely correct, a prostitute is inferior to a courtesan in a way. A courtesan was typically an intelligent, educated woman. She had multiple talents and they weren't just sexual - her patron made an investment in her, and he treasured her, just as you said you treasure me. I know you would never force me to do anything I don't want to do, so I feel safe in occasionally placing all of the control in your hands, I _know_ you respect me and would take care of me, make sure that I enjoy the experience as well," she admitted.

Setting his fork down, William took her hand and looked her directly in the eyes. "Have I ever asked you to do something you would prefer not to do?" he wondered.

"Asked me to? No. I will admit, that I am not that fond of fellatio, yet you will remember I have performed it on you a few times over the years. Admittedly, I didn't give you much say in the matter," she confessed with a nervous laugh.

"While I certainly didn't hate it those times, I've never wanted to ask for or demand it again. The idea of it leaves me somewhat uncomfortable, I must confess. I've always felt that it was degrading to the woman even if it was highly pleasurable for me. So, if you don't enjoy it, why have you done it? I've never asked for it from you."

Laughing, she took a sip of her wine. "Truth be told, I am somewhat ambivalent about it. I liked that it brought you immense pleasure, but honestly, what I enjoyed most was the feeling of control it gave me over you," she said.

"Control?" William asked.

"Yes, William, control. I wanted to be your lover, wanted to make love to you, and experience you in that way. Yet you were so steadfast in your belief that we not indulge before marriage and you were very much in control in that regard. This was my way for me to assert my control in a way. I may have been on my knees, but I had you by your most vulnerable piece of anatomy…I had the power in that instant, and it was thrilling to have confirmation that underneath all that propriety and restraint, you were very much a man. I enjoyed that aspect of it I suppose you could say, but the actual act, well, no, it doesn't do much for me, and I suppose that's why I haven't taken you in my mouth since we married. I experience what I want to experience now, and I admit, that was terribly unfair of me to do to you. You had your reasons for abstaining, and I didn't respect them as much as I should have," she admitted.

Chortling to himself, he shook his head. "I knew what you wanted Julia, and I wanted to give it to you. Badly. But, I was afraid that if I did, you would be content to merely be my lover, and that was never going to suffice for me. I wanted everything Julia. I wanted you to wear my ring, share my bed, take meals with you, raise a family…I wanted to have a lifetime with you, I wanted to grow old with you, still do as a matter of fact. Withholding my sexual favors from you was my own form of control if I'm honest, it was a way of making sure you would be my bride, so I can't admit to being any better in that sense," he admitted.

"Funny, it's usually the woman who holds that position," Julia laughed.

"Yes, it's not the first time we've done a role reversal in our relationship, and truthfully, I quite like it that way. I got the one thing I wanted more than anything, and that was you as my wife. It worked out in the end," William ceded.

"Speaking of reversals…and you, William? I love it when you …taste me. Am I asking for more than I should?"

"Oh, no! It is quite intoxicating, and I think I understand what you mean by being in control…"

She found his blush charming and his answer thrilling. "So tell me William. You seem to feel most strongly against prostitution. Is there a reason for that? Something in your past?" Julia wondered.

Pushing his chair back from the table, William walked over to the window and looked out. "I suppose there is," he admitted as his shoulders sagged. "After I gave up my notion to become a priest and it's demand for celibacy, I still thought that I would save myself for marriage. I wanted my bride and I to discover the art of lovemaking together, but for my 18th birthday, I was presented with a whor…a prostitute," he corrected. "I didn't think much of it, I was young, impressionable, and the men were cheering me on," he said with a laugh. "So I spent myself with her, because that's what I thought a man was supposed to do, and I didn't think much about it until, as time went by, I learned that she'd been orphaned with a younger sister and brother and with no other way to support them in a rough logging town, she turned to prostitution. That's always bothered me, Julia. She wasn't suffering the awkward fumblings of a neophyte such as me because she wanted to, she did it to take care of her family because there was no other way to do so in that community. What's worse, is that many of the men who saw her were married, exposing their wives and maybe even children to all sorts of diseases and harm," he said with disgust, shaking his head. After several long minutes, he continued, "Probably not what you wanted to hear."

"It's the truth William, and it helps me understand where you're coming from. Of course that would bother you and shape your views on the topic. As for myself, I was relieved when Darcy stopped visiting me…I couldn't bear his attentions…they were a reminder of my biggest mistake. Not only did I often find myself imagining that it was you, I felt guilty about it afterwards and quite frankly, I longed for the time when he would finally start taking those needs elsewhere, as my friend's husbands had done," she confessed.

William was silent, but walked over to her and held out his hand, helping her up and pulling her towards him. They said nothing, but simply held one another. "How about now, Julia? Do you long for me to take my needs elsewhere?" he asked.

"No, I actually couldn't bear such a thing, it would devastate me. I want to be your only lover, and I love the fact that you would never do such a thing, that you want me to be your everything, your _courtesan_ , if you will," she whispered.

"Yes, Julia. Despite my foibles and less than honorable exploits as a younger man, I knew that once I married, I would never be unfaithful to my wife, that I would honor my vows to her. I love that you're my best friend, my lover, my confidante, and my partner. I wouldn't want it any other way," he murmured. "I want it all, Julia."

"As do I, William. I don't want ever want another woman to do with you what I do," she reasoned.

"I assure you, dearest Julia, you're the only one for me."

Even though he was exhausted, he was not at all averse to physically enjoying Julia once again, particularly given what they'd just shared. He looked at the bottle of Lydia Pinkham's Vegetable Compound and wondered if he might be able to convince her to undertake another experiment with him.

Catching his glance, she giggled. "Would you care to give it another go, Detective?"

"Indeed I would, Doctor," he replied, pulling her snug against him as he kissed her.

# # #

Three Weeks Later

Julia looked up, annoyed, in reaction to the bang and slam of the double-door entrance to 'her' morgue, the noise echoing off white tile walls. Constable Jackson's backside proceeded in first, followed by a large crate and a deliveryman on the other end, sweating and grunting with their immense burden. Jackson nearly lost his grip when the other man pushed the door closed behind him with a booted foot. The two men stood there looking around for someplace to put the crate down. "Dr. Ogden. Where do you want this?" Jackson asked.

Julia wiped her hands and came over to examine the crate. "Where do I want what?"

The deliveryman set his end of the crate on a lab stool and drew out an invoice, and handed it to her with a well-muscled dark brown arm. "Missus Murdoch? This delivery has to be signed for or I have to take it all the way back to my boss. And he won't like that. Not at all."

Julia examined the papers. "This appears to be something my husband ordered."

"Says it can only be delivered to 'Murdoch'—don't matter to me if it's Mister or Missus," the deliveryman complained.

"He's not there, doctor, will be out all afternoon, so I thought we could just deliver this to you so this man can get on his way?" Jackson asked hopefully, wrestling with his end of the wooden box.

Julia sighed even as her curiosity was piqued. She scribbled her signature, _'Mrs. Murdoch'_ , just to cover all bases and saw the gentlemen out. Coming back to the wooden crate deposited on the floor, she circled it—about six and a half feet long, two feet wide and two feet high. She peered inside between the slats, but all she saw was packing material. _"What sort of contraption has he purchased now and wherever does he plan on keeping it?"_ she wondered. She restrained herself from opening it up, going back to her workbench and getting absorbed in finishing up her organ dissection and tissue sample examination.

By the time she'd finished and stretched to work out the crick in her neck, four hours had passed without any disturbance and suppertime was just around the corner. That delivery, which she had effectively put out of her mind, was now calling her attention like a siren song. _Well, it got delivered to a Murdoch and I signed for it, so perhaps I should open it._ She thought about how awkwardly it was marched into the morgue, the jostling in some warehouse or in a carriage. _What if whatever it is got broken in the transport? William does mail order some delicate equipment._

Having found a persuasive rationalization, she immediately rummaged around for a pry-bar and attacked the packing-crate until the final nail was removed from the lid and she set it aside. The box held a thick layer of wood wool, which she scooped up to discover a burlap–wrapped flat area. She was struggling with removing the rest of the wooden crate when Constable Crabtree entered and immediately came over to help her unearth what appeared to be a long, low bench swathed in muslin, and set it out on the floor.

Julia thought there more packaging than product, now scattered over her workspace. "It is something William ordered. I wonder what it is?"

"He's right behind me, doctor; he sent me over to get your most recent analysis." He gestured to the covered object. "You'll just have to see for yourself."

After unwrapping it, Julia was puzzled at what she surveyed: a bench of about six feet, by perhaps two feet wide and eighteen inches high, pinched down in the middle of the bench to a width of less than 12 inches. It was thickly upholstered in a rich brown velvet, which she ran her hand over in admiration. And if she understand the design, one half of the bench could be raised on an incline, for what purpose she could not imagine.

"Well," she stated as she backed away to show it off to the constable for the first time. "What do you think, George? I've never seen anything quite like it, it is a most unusual piece."

George was trying hard not to answer, his eyes betraying a certain amount of anxiety. "Oh, Good Lord!" he muttered under his breath.

"This is so soft and plush. Nice support. I never guessed he'd be so thoughtful of me."

George tried to back away…anything to _not_ have this conversation.

"I think he must have gotten it for our bedroom, I can't think where else he'd want to locate it—unless the salon, or over by the window?"

George practically choked. "Um, doctor, I really should be getting back—I would not want to be here when the detective gets here, I mean I would not want him to see me…" Too late, he realized, the detective was coming down the ramp. "Sir! I must be going. I will get Dr. Ogden's full report in the morning."

George fled blindly past William and out, not even bothering to stop and close the door. William watched him go, surprised at the constable acting like scalded cat. He shook his head in wonder and turned around to greet his wife, a huge smile on his face and that lovely lift in his heart he gets whenever he sees her. "Julia! Good evening, how…."

He lost his voice upon seeing his wife, a slight sweat forming on his back. _Oh no! The love bench…_

"Julia?" he asked nervously, "what have you there and why was George here?" _Thank the lord I did not order a siege d'amour!_

"William! He was admiring the new piece of furniture you got for our suite. Why did you not tell me you wanted a bench for the end of our bed so we can use it to set the counterpane on it or use it to put our shoes on in the morning….?" She patted it fondly. "It does seem a little long though. George and I discussed which room I'd prefer to have it in—did you want it in the salon…?" Julia smiled at him for a moment before she became curious about his reaction.

William was caught off guard, but could not help imagining what this particular piece of furniture was designed for: his body reclined on the bench and Julia above him in all her glory, riding him for an exquisite, tight connection, all the way to ecstasy …

 _Good Lord! And now George is thinking about that too….._ Laughing softly, he shook his head. _Nothing to be done about it now,_ he thought. "Well, Julia, perhaps we best hire a wagon and transport it to the hotel, which is where it was supposed to have been delivered. Then, I would like to show you what it is for, and, I hope you find it as intriguing as I do," he explained.

"How fascinating! A mysterious function? I can't wait for you to show it to me, William!" she enthused.

"Nor I, Julia," he laughed out loud now. "Nor I!"

 **-END-**

# # #

 **Author's Notes: Thank you for joining us on W &J's adventure we cooked up for you.** **Please give us your thoughts on the story—we welcome any and all comments and reviews. It is fun, easy to do and much appreciated by Fallenbelle and RuthieGreen.**

 **Historical background** **: (Or….the internet is a wonderful thing** **)**

Patent Medicines (the original over-the-counter medications) were a real thing and a real problem (still can be in fact!) Many of the preparations were in fact toxic; the 'good' ones at least did not harm even if they were not helpful. Dr. Batty's _Asthma Cigarettes_ and Mrs. Lydia E. Pinkham's _Vegetable Compound_ indeed existed and Heroin was sold as a cure for all sorts of things and opiates and alcohol were liberally applied to all sorts of daily ills, _and_ given to children making them sicker than they already were. In fact all such questionable concoctions mentioned here truly did exist and you can even still buy a varied form of Lydia Pinkham's compound today as it is marketed as an herbal remedy.

There was indeed a _Madam Le Chabanais_ in Paris who hosted King Edward in her bordello, and if you check on line you can get a picture of the siege d'amour referenced in the story and apply your own imagination… Alice Keppel was one of the King's long-term mistresses.

-RG says thank you to "Dutch" for a beta read.

\- FB says thanks to "Big Red" for helping out while she wrote, and to "E" for "helping". :)


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